Allergic to Potions
by Cordria
Summary: A simple request for Harry to get his vaccinations has some unexpected consequences. Can Harry survive the summer trapped with his snarky potions professor?
1. Prologue

This begins near the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.

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**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

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The letter sitting next to Harry's breakfast had originally caused him a lot of concern. It was a list of magical vaccinations Harry would need to get before being allowed to return for his second year of schooling.

Magical vaccinations? From the Dursleys?

He'd spent the better part of a day trapped between fits of insane laughter at the image of his aunt's face when he mentioned them and pure terror at the thought of not being allowed to return to Hogwarts. There was no way his relatives would let him get vaccinations over the summer. He'd barely gotten the muggle ones, much less _magical_ ones. He wasted the day with his friends, more and more convinced that he would never get to see them again.

It was nearing supper when his head of house, Professor McGonagall, tracked him down. The tall, Scottish woman gazed into his eyes, a frown on her face. "How are you feeling, Mr. Potter?"

Harry smiled at her. "I'm fine, thanks Professor." He swallowed heavily, hoping that the woman wouldn't start in on him again. It seemed that nearly every day since the incident with the Sorcerer's Stone, she'd sat him down and questioned him about all manners of things. Nightmares, headaches, stress...

She made a noise in her nose that signaled her disbelief. "Have you reported to the hospital wing yet?"

Blink. "... No?" Harry stared at her, confused.

"Your vaccinations, Mr. Potter. Didn't you read the letter?" Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. "Having trouble concentrating?"

"No, Professor," Harry said quickly, pulling out the letter and scanning it again... for the first time taking in the note at the ending. All muggle-born were to report to Madam Pomfrey before the end of the year to receive their vaccinations. Harry to be included, of course. An intense feeling of pure stupidity had swamped over him: he'd spent the better part of his last full day at Hogwarts worrying about nothing. "I was going to do those later."

With a quiet sound, the stern professor shook her head and continued down the hallway, leaving Harry to sink with relief against the stone wall. A smile spreading across his face, Harry carefully pocketed the letter and headed towards supper.

After feasting on the best that Hogwarts could offer, Harry said an easy goodbye to his friends and hurried up to the hospital wing, eager to get the whole thing over with so he could spend the last few hours of freedom and happiness with his friends. He tripped his way up the stairs, avoided the local poltergeist, and slipped through the door.

The walls of the hospital wing glittered white and clean. Twin rows of beds lined the walls below the arching windows. The mediwitch's office sat in the back corner, door propped slightly open as the woman bustled around the echoing space.

Harry shuddered slightly, hesitating as the door swung closed behind him. After only one year of school, he'd developed a distaste for the place. The thought of being confined to a bed, hovered over, treated like a young child?

"Mister Potter," the witch said with a smile, motioning him over.

"Hey, Madam Pomfrey," Harry grinned, shaking off the smothered feeling and walking towards the older woman. "I'm here for vaccinations?"

She nodded, pulling out a tray with an alarming number of potions on them. "I saw from your files you're a bit behind… not uncommon from muggle households," she was saying as she held each one up to the light, "but a bit unfortunate sometimes." She set the tray in front of him, the little vials clinking softly. "I'm afraid you'll be taking them all," she added, no doubt based on the expression floating on Harry's face.

Dragging his eyes off the bottles, Harry glanced back at the door, in a vain hope for freedom. "I…"

"It's best to just get them over with, they're not going anywhere," the mediwitch said pleasantly. She plunked a large glass of water down on the tray before getting up to see to another student who had walked through the door. An older Hufflepuff with a curiously large and green left hand.

Harry watched for a few moments, wincing in sympathy at the look of pain on the older boy's face as Madam Pomfrey pocked and prodded the still-swelling appendage. Then, with a sigh, he grabbed the first of the eleven vials.

Eleven. He shuddered even thinking about it.

Yanking at the cork, Harry listened to it pop quietly, then poured the bluish contents into his mouth. It tasted of salty socks. He followed it down with a large swallow of water and picked up the next vial. It wasn't any better.

He was on the fifth potion before he started to feel… a bit odd. Setting down the glass of water, Harry sat quietly on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting everything settle in his stomach. The room seemed like it was spinning. Like the floor was trying to turn into a wall. Harry felt himself tipping to the side, reached out to grab something to steady himself, and found his arm not responding to his commands.

In fact, said appendage was breaking out in large welts that began to burn. Bee stings. Big, bloody bee stings that oozed a greenish pus. That's what they felt like, looked like.

Harry just about had time to process the thought before he finished tipping over and collapsed onto the edge of the bed. His body rolled, tumbling him onto the floor. Muscles in his body tensed, making his arms and legs spasm and shake, his throat swelling until he couldn't breathe. Couldn't shout for help.

Could only stare at the mediwitch still busying herself with a Hufflepuff, whose eyes were squeezed shut in agony.

It was like a switch was flipped in his head. One second he was there…

Then everything went black.

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**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 1: Waking in the Hospital Wing

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

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Everything hurt. Burned. Ached.

He could feel his body twitching and spasming, his leg suddenly kicking off the sheet that had covered him. There was a noise and the sheet was pulled back around him. Something cool was pressed against his forehead.

Harry's eyes flickered open to the intensely bright light of the hospital wing. A moan slipped from his throat and his eyes squeezed shut tightly. Slowly he relaxed his body back into the bed. "Wha-" He broke off, surprised by how dry his throat felt.

A hard, cool object pressed against his lips. Harry opened his mouth to let it in without thought, finding the object to be a bit of ice. He sucked on it a moment, working his eyes back open.

The lights had been dimmed. Harry let his head tip to the side, studying the blurry shape that was settling into the chair by his bed. It was someone tall and thin, but Harry wasn't sure about much beyond that. If only everyone didn't have to wear black all the time.

"How are you feeling?"

Harry froze at the sound of the voice – smooth as silk and cold as ice. Professor Snape.

Sitting by his bedside.

Harry found his mouth moving, but a burst of pain turned the words into something of a groan of agony. His eyes fluttered closed again, struggling to gain control of the sharp shards that were slicing into his mind.

"Why, in Merlin's name, did you not _tell_ anyone you were allergic to pallid grass?

The man's voice drilled into Harry's brain, making the pain all the worse. Harry felt his body wince, his hand coming up to press against his skull. His fingers twitched, out of his control. His brain felt like it was two sizes too big for his head. A hiss worked its way out of his mouth.

"I suppose you enjoy being in immense amounts of pain."

Harry couldn't quite process what the greasy professor meant. His thoughts were swirling around in circles, unable to grab onto anything concrete. Darkness was nibbling at the corners of his mind.

His teeth clenched together; his lips pressed tightly shut. The man was trying to torment him into talking. Getting him to admit to the pain, no doubt. Well, he wasn't going to give Snape the pleasure. He wouldn't make a noise.

"Or, perhaps, you were just pulling another of your stunts, looking for attention."

Oh, how he wished the idiot would just shut up. The cutting voice was making the shaking worse. Sudden pain arched up his body as his spasming leg muscles cramped. Toes curled and uncurled in unconscious, agony-filled movements.

Unbidden, unwished-for whimpers worked their way out of his nose.

"Potter."

A hand touched his shoulder. Like setting off some sort of domino, every muscle in Harry's body clenched and cramped. He curled up into a ball, a scream of pure pain echoed into the room as Harry fell back into the darkness.

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The next time he woke up, everything seemed fuzzy. Not just the way they looked, but the way everything _felt_. Even the smooth sheets of the bed seemed fuzzy, not quite there.

Harry opened his eyes, looking around the dark hospital wing. It was empty.

He licked his dry lips and let his head fall back against the pillow. The pain was still there – it shrieked at him everything time he twitched – but it too was fuzzy. Like it wasn't quite… there.

Fingers twitched against the blankets and Harry glanced down at his hand. The muscles in his arm were spasming every now and then. He stared at his arm for a while, willing his body to stay still, but it only seemed to make the twitching worse. Slowly, trying to ignore the fuzzy clouds of pain in his brain, he picked up his arm.

He felt… weird. Like this arm wasn't quite attached to him. The appendage felt heavy and full, his body starting to shake with the effort of holding his hand in the air. He squinted, just a bit, and picked out the bumps and welts still covering his skin. Greenish fluid pooled and ran across his skin. Almost belatedly, he realized the blankets he was lying on were soaked with the stuff.

Letting his arm drop back to his side, Harry licked his lips again. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasping whisper.

There was a glass beside his bed, Harry could just see it. He lay there for long, long moments, debating between the pain that moving would cause and the quickly building desire for some water. His mouth was so dry…

Slow movements rolled Harry onto his stomach, on the side of the bed, burying his head in his pillow to wait out the wash of pain in his mind. Then he reached out his arm. His fingers brushed the edge of the glass. It teetered, skittering away from his grasp.

Having come this far, Harry growled a tiny bit and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He reached, stretching, and got his trembling hand around the cool glass.

Then, without warning, his body convulsed. Harry felt his body curl, his back arch. Felt the edge of his bed under him as the uncontrolled movements pushed him around. His body tipped and he collapsed to the floor, shuddering and spasming, completely out of control.

It slowly ebbed away, leaving him feeling like he'd just done back-to-back quidditch practices. His muscles twitched slightly as his body relaxed. Water dripped onto the ground from the spilled glass, creating an ever-expanding puddle of cold near Harry's shoulder.

Harry thought about getting up, trying to get back into bed, but he decided the floor was more than comfortable enough.

Darkness claimed him, a bit more willingly this time.

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"Potter."

The voice of his least-liked professor cut into his sleep. There was a hand on his shoulder, fingernails feeling like they were digging into his skin.

"Potter."

Perhaps Snape wasn't his least-liked professor, not after what had happened with Quirrell. Surely a murder attempt would put the stumbling man in last place.

Second-least-liked, then. Harry could deal with that.

"Potter, for Merlin's sake. Open your eyes."

The icy tone slammed into Harry's brain, an ache starting to form. Perhaps he might have to rethink his least-liked list.

Fingernails dug into his skin again and Harry let his eyes open. The lights were soft, the greasy-haired professor leaning over him. Harry could make out the man's black eyes, gazing into his. Harry let out a groan that could only be classified as Zombie-esque.

"You need to get something into your stomach," Snape said. Then his hand appeared, another cold thing pressed again Harry's lips. Harry hesitated, then accepted the bits of ice. "I'm going to sit you up."

Up? Harry's mind struggled to catch up to what was going on. He took in the bed – he was back in it, someone must have helped him in his sleep – and the bowl sitting on the nightstand. His stomach clenched at the thought of food.

Slowly, Harry shook his head. "No," he whispered.

Snape paused. "No?" There was a darkness to the word.

Hands pulled at Harry's shoulders, pulling him into a rough sitting position. Pain from the movements shot thought Harry, making him draw in a rough breath, his body shaking. Then the hands pushed him back down, resting him against a cushion of pillows. He wasn't sitting up as much as lying upwards.

"I'm afraid you're lacking in options, child." Snape reached over and picked up a tray, settling it in front of Harry. Little legs popped out of the tray, making it into a tiny table. A bowl of soup sat on the black tray. "Eat."

The smell made Harry's stomach roll, nausea pulling at him. Breathing slowly through his mouth, Harry closed his eyes and made no attempt to pick up the spoon.

"Potter, enough of this idiocy. I'm not going to sit here all day!" Snape's voice was cold and sharp, annoyance bursting through every word.

"I don't feel well," Harry whispered, hoping it would be enough for the irate professor. The muscles in his legs twitched, then fell still.

Silence met that. "It's because you haven't eaten in quite some time," sneered the older man. "As you'd realize if you could follow even one simple command."

Harry opened his eyes, glancing from the bowl to the professor. "How long have I been asleep?" The words came out broken and rasping.

He could see the eyebrow twitch. "Four days, now," the man snapped. "Pick up the bloody spoon and eat." Then, almost as if the man couldn't stand to be in the room a second more, pushed himself to his feet and stalked from the hospital wing. The door swung behind him, groaning quietly on its hinges.

Harry's heart sank. Four days? His friends would all be gone, home for the holidays. He…

He should be at the Dursleys. Harry continued to stare in the direction of the door. It was summer, he should be with the Dursleys, he should be free of his dreaded potions professor, and yet he wasn't. He was here. He was sick.

An allergy.

The word buzzed through the fuzziness of Harry's brain and settled between his ears. That's what Snape had said. An allergy to something… probably one of the potions he'd drank.

Harry had never heard of allergies to _potions_. Potions were magical; they weren't a food. It was why muggles couldn't brew them - why they couldn't get any benefit from them either. People couldn't be allergic to potions any more than they could be allergic to _magic_. It made no sense.

"Potter!"

The shouted voice snapped Harry out of his musings with a startled flinch. His face warmed, slightly guiltily, and picked up his arm. It still felt like it was full of water, much too heavy to be _his_ arm. Fingers didn't quite respond right, twitching uncontrollably when Harry attempted to pick up the spoon.

Finally, after several tries, Harry managed to grab the spoon in a child-like grip, wrapping all his fingers around the slim silver handle. The muscles in his arm spasming now and then, Harry slowly dipped the spoon into the soup and brought the spoon to his mouth.

By the time it got there, the twitching of his arms hand made the contents of the spoon dribble to the sheets. A last-second spasm had the bottom of the spoon smear against his nose and cheek rather than fit into his mouth.

His legs chose that moment to move, knocking into the tray. The soup bowl wobbled dangerously, spilling a good portion of its contents. Harry gazed at the soup for a long moment. Warm soup dripped from the edge of the tray onto his bed. The smell of the soup made his stomach curl dangerously.

Frustration mixed with nausea as Harry's body twitched yet again. Slowly setting the spoon back down, Harry settled back against the pillows. He really wasn't hungry.

He tried to drift back to sleep, into the comfort of the blackness, but his potions professor didn't stay away long enough. The man stalked back into the room, dragging a black cloud with him. He stopped by the edge of the bed, Harry gazing up at the man in silence.

Nobody spoke. Seconds ticked away.

Then Snape grabbed the tray and set it onto the bedside time. A quick _Evanesco_ cleaned up the soup mess on the sheets. He drew a stool up to the side of the bed and perched on it, picking up the remains of the soup with a dark sigh. The spoon clicked against the side of the bowl before being held out in front of Harry's mouth.

Harry stared at his professor in confusion. He opened his mouth to ask what in the world the man thought he was doing, but the spoon was thrust inside. Harry coughed at the unexpected mouth-full of soup. Liquid dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"You will eat this soup," Snape said, his voice cold and controlled, "so it's not worth complaining."

Another spoonful appeared. Harry thought about keeping his mouth closed. He thought about arguing. But he just opened his mouth and let his professor feed him. The soup was luke-warm and horribly bland. Something in it tingled against the back of his throat. He couldn't quite help the way his mouth twisted in disgust.

Snape hummed. Happily, Harry decided in frustration, as he accepted another spoonful of the horrible food.

Then his body betrayed him yet again. His muscles clenched and released, making him twitch and shake against the pillows. It went on forever.

Slowly it faded, leaving him feeling faint and broken. Tired. Horribly empty.

The sheets were wet. His bladder had released at some point. The smell of vomit curled in his nose. His eyes flickered open, just a little, before closing again. Snape was standing by his bedside. No doubt furious. Probably covered in soup, as Harry was pretty sure one of his legs had caught the soup bowl and sent it splattering all over the smelly professor.

Harry should be embarrassed. He should be apologizing. He should be…

But he wasn't. He was tired.

So his eyes stayed closed and his mind sank back into sleep.

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Someone was brushing fingers through his hair. Playing with his bangs. Running cold fingers over his forehead. It was an incredibly soothing sensation.

But Harry couldn't bring himself awake enough to find out who it was.

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**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 2: Consquences of Allergies

**More. :)  
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**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
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**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
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**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

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Snape was glaring at him from the foot of the bed. Quite frankly, Harry thought it was getting old. Was there nobody else in this bloody castle to greet him when he woke up? The man's arms were crossed over his chest, his foot was tapping on the floor, and it looked as though someone had just run over his cat.

No, Snape wouldn't have a cat. Or a dog. Perhaps a snake, or a lizard. That might fit the man's personality better.

The sheets of the bed were warm and dry, a blanket pulled up over his shoulders. Harry rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. His skin felt bumpy and odd. His fingers played with the bumps on his cheeks for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the grumpy professor.

"So," the man snarled.

Oh yes, someone had definitely run over whatever pet Snape would own.

"So," Harry answered back after a moment. His fingers suddenly twitched, clenching painfully, and Harry let his hand drop to his lap. He tangled his fingers in the soft blanket.

The silence pressed in on them. Snape continued to glare. Harry continued to be horribly confused. Surely the man wasn't holding the soup thing against him? It wasn't like Harry could've helped it. Then again, knowing Snape…

The ever-present ache started in the back of his mind, starting to spread through his head. Little shards of pain curled up from his arms and legs as the muscles spasmed. Harry winced and shifted, trying to relieve the ache of his limbs.

A dark snarl and Snape stalked around the edge of the bed and grabbed Harry's chin. Harry flinched at the expected pain of the strong fingers, surprised to feel nothing but a gentle touch. Snape turned Harry's head to the side, then back to gaze into his eyes. The man seemed to be searching for something. "You are still in pain."

It wasn't a question, but Harry nodded his head anyways.

"You had an allergic reaction to a potion." Snape let go of his chin, but only to grab Harry's wrist and start to examine the skin on his arm. A sharp spike of pain as Snape prodded one of the little welts.

"I thought you couldn't be allergic to potions." Harry's voice was raspy and tired.

The professor glanced up at him. "Generally, no. Allergies to potions are rare and generally confined to the muggle-born population." He slowly set Harry's arm back down. "Your mother had a rather severe allergy to the same thing, I suspect you've inherited it."

The mention of his mother had Harry straightening and paying closer attention. "Did she get sick too?"

After a moment of silence, Snape shook his head. "No. Pallid grass is a common enough ingredient in potions that she had handled it… suffered nothing more than a rash on her hand. Rather than ingesting _four servings_ of the thing." There was a very strange note to the professor's voice. Anger, but an odd anger. "How, may I ask, did you make it through an _entire year_ of potions without touching pallid grass even once?"

"Four?" Harry blinked.

Snape sighed. "Pallid grass is a common ingredient in magical vaccinations. Those types of potions are highly unstable, collapsing within hours of being made, and the grass is used to keep it active for a longer period of time. Four of the potions you ingested before you collapsed contained the ingredient."

"Oh." Harry's leg flexed, distracting him. "That was bad, I guess."

There wasn't an answer to that. Harry glanced back at the potions professor. The man settled into the chair next to the bed and steepled his fingers.

His muscles twitched and shuddered. Harry hesitated, feeling a brief flash of fear that he was going to lose control again, but everything settled down. "Why are my muscles twitching?"

"Seizing," Snape corrected blandly. "It's a result of attempting to commit suicide via allergic reaction."

"I didn't-"

Snape cut him off with a shake of his head. "Yes, I realize you didn't _know_. You didn't _mean to_. But you have to realize that you were thirty seconds from death, Potter. If Madam Pomfrey hadn't had the right potion – _on hand_ – we wouldn't be having this conversation." Darkness was cutting into the man's voice. Anger. Fury. Hatred.

Harry stared at the professor. "But-"

"How many _times_ can I tell students not to take more than one potion at a time?" Snape snarled. "That one should _wait_ between potions, just to make sure they won't interfere with each other?"

"Madam Pomfrey-"

"If you'd have taken one, then _waited_, you'd probably be home right now with your relatives, being doted on hand and foot, with nothing a few headaches to worry about. But _now_…" Snape's eyes were almost glowing.

Harry shrank back into his pillows, wishing he could press himself into the bed and disappear. He'd never seen Snape so angry.

"_Now_, you have to stay at the school. _Now_, you're on a highly specific potion regime. _Now_, you're going to be in _my way_ until you're well enough to go home!"

"Sorry?" Harry whispered.

The professor lurched to his feet and stalked from the hospital wing. The door slammed shut behind him, then slowly creaked back open again. Harry, completely bewildered, felt his mouth move soundlessly. Then, with a huff, he crossed his arms and settled a glare onto his face.

"As if this was all my fault," Harry grumbled. "You don't need to be so mad; I didn't know."

"And I have a headache," he called out, his voice rasping and breaking painfully. "Thanks for offering something for that." His voice dropped back down to normal and he slumped into his pillows. Parts of his body lurched, pain sharp in his mind. "I hurt all over."

It was no more than half-hearted complaining. Nobody was there to listen.

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Snape brought another bowl of soup a few hours later. Harry had managed to locate his glasses, which made it so he could finally see. The man brushed into the room, his movements quick and purposeful. The almost visible cloud of fury hanging around the professor had evaporated, leaving him cold and sterile again.

The bowl was placed on a tray, the tray set back on Harry's bed. "Eat." That darkness was still in his voice. Snape settled into the chair, holding out the spoon.

Complaints buried themselves in Harry's throat. He still wasn't feeling hungry, the smell of the bland soup making his stomach roll. But the glitter in Snape's eye wasn't worth fighting.

Quietly, Harry reached out and accepted the spoon, then turned his eyes to the soup. His fingers twitched, the spoon falling to the bed as Harry lost his grip. Flushing, Harry grabbed the spoon, wrapping his fingers securely around it, and struggled through eating the soup. Only half of it ended up in his mouth – the rest down his shirt, on his face, and across the bed.

Snape finally removed the spoon and tray. "Could you have made more of a mess?"

Harry watched his toes twitch under the sheets, refusing to look up at the man. It wasn't like he could _help_ it. Finally, unable to stand the silence, he shrugged.

"You need a bath."

Harry – who'd been about to pull his eyes from his toes – froze. He could barely feed himself, how would he be expected to…

The thought completed itself and Harry felt blood rush to his face. "No, I can't… it's okay… I'll just…" his tongue rolled over his words as he struggled to find something intelligent to say. There was no way.

No way _Snape_ was going to give him a _bath_!

"You've been in this bed for almost a week. I'm sick of smelling you." The sheets vanished, leaving Harry staring at his bare toes.

"Can't someone else-?"

Snape snorted. "If there were _someone else_, do you think I'd be here?" Harry felt cold hands pull at him, helping him sit up a bit straighter.

"Where is-"

"It's summer holiday, Potter," Snape snapped. "Everyone else is home. Enjoying being away from _annoying students_."

Harry flinched away from the viciousness in Snape's voice, but the hands helping him to the edge of the bed never grew rough. He swung his legs over the side, his feet barely brushing the cold floor. "Oh," Harry whispered.

"Do you think you'll be able to stand on your own?"

Harry hesitated. "I can try…"

Snape's eyes narrowed with a huff. Then an arm swooped under Harry's shoulders and another under his knees and, quite suddenly, Harry was in his professor's arms. Harry couldn't help the yelp of surprise, grabbing for the front of Snape's robes.

"Don't squirm or I will drop you."

It took nothing more for Harry to attempt to hold still, although his twitching muscles weren't doing much to help. "I'm trying," he muttered as Snape grumbled and kneed open the door to the bath.

Harry was deposited on the edge of the tub, Snape keeping one hand firmly on Harry's shoulder to help hold him upright. Water started to run. The professor dug a vial out of his pocket and pulled out the cork with his teeth. "Smell," he said, holding the vial near Harry's face.

Harry leaned forwards slightly to sniff the liquid. Snape yanked back on his shoulder, his fingernails sharp in Harry's skin. "Is that how you smell a potion for the first time?" came the dark snarl.

"Oh…" Harry glanced at the professor. "But you wouldn't…"

The black eyes narrowed. "You're having an extreme reaction to a potion. It is more than possible that you'll have reactions to other potions, especially now. I've no _idea_ if pouring this vial into your bath will help you or kill you."

Harry's eyes fixed on the purplish liquid, leaning away from it. He felt his side press into Snape's body. "What's it do?"

"It _should_ alleviate the pain from your skin and help you heal without scarring. However, it _could_ restart your allergic reaction." Snape's voice was cold, the darkness fading back away.

"But you don't think it will," Harry said uncertainly.

Silence, broken only by the running water. "No, I highly doubt it, otherwise I wouldn't suggest it."

Harry licked his lips. "Is that why you haven't given me any pain potions?"

"Madam Pomfrey gave you a dose when you first got sick." There was a pressing moment of quiet. The fingers were hard in his shoulder, almost painful. "You'll not be getting another for awhile." Something strange curled in his voice. "Now, smell. _Correctly_."

Harry brought his shaking hand up to the vial and waved his fingers over the top, pushed some of the smell towards him. "It's minty!" he grinned.

There was a sound as the vial vanished and Harry found his chin behind grabbed again. Snape glared into Harry's eyes, searching. Then the fingers relaxed. "Okay." The vial was poured into the running water, the smell of mint curling into the air.

Harry watched purple bubbles start to foam in the warm water, and found himself dreading what he knew was about to happen. As his professor leaned over to turn off the tap, his mind started to scramble for something to stall the inevitable. "What do you keep looking for?"

"What?" There was a cold edge to Snape's voice. But, unfortunately for Harry, the question didn't make Snape stop. The man grabbed the bottom of Harry's pajama shirt and hauled it over Harry's head.

Harry was momentarily swamped with pain from his body moving so much. His eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply, his arms twitching madly. After a long moment, he pushed the dark ache backwards and let his eyes flicker open. His brain scrambled to remember what his train of thought had been. "You keep staring in my eyes, what are you looking for?"

The man gazed at him, then reached out a hand. A small mirror zipped across the room and Snape held it up.

The whites of Harry's eyes were stained green. It almost matched the natural color of his eyes. Harry stared at his reflection, his mouth open in astonishment.

"They were almost black a week ago," the man said simply. "They've been getting lighter with each passing day. If you were relapsing due to the bath salts, the color would darken again." He set the mirror down. "Enough stalling."

Harry felt blood rushing to his face. "Um…"

Snape stared back. "You've got nothing I haven't seen before, Potter," he said simply. "I'm not leaving you in here unsupervised. You'll drown." Then there was an arched eyebrow. "Unless you'd prefer a sponge bath?"

Feeling like his face was beet red, Harry shook his head. His mouth moved, trying to come up with something to say.

But he couldn't. What was there to say?

The older man sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to _look_, Potter."

And then began what was _the_ most embarrassing moment of his life. Bar. None.

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...

That night, Harry startled himself awake. He lay still, breathing hard, unable to quite remember what his dream had been about. Something about a mirror and his aunt.

Just before he fell back asleep, he thought he saw someone in the hospital wing with him, sitting in a chair in the shadows. But he was probably mistaken.

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...

Professor Snape brought up breakfast the next morning – more of the bland soup – as well as a dark vial of liquid. Harry watched him set the tray on his bed, then settle into the chair nearby. The man pulled out his wand and swished it. Another tray of food and a copy of the Daily Prophet appeared on the bedside table.

"What's this?" Harry asked, carefully picking up the potion.

"You're quite sick, if you haven't noticed," the man said dryly, unrolling the newspaper and scanning the front page. "I thought you'd prefer to get better."

Harry held the potion up, watching the way the sunlight shown through the almost-black liquid. It was the same color as Snape's eyes – almost black but with hints of copper. His arm shook, his fingers twitched, and Harry quickly set the vial back down. Waiting for the convulsions to pass, Harry glanced at the newspaper.

One of the headlines mentioned Quirrell. Harry squinted, trying to read, but Snape set down the paper. The man scooped up the vial and pulled out the stopper. "You'll be taking this potion for the next three weeks at specific times and specific concentrations. Twice a day from now on."

Snape held out the vial, then hesitated as Harry's fingers spasmed open and shut. With a scowl, Snape leaned forwards and pressed the vial against Harry's lips. "Open."

Harry had the unfortunate knowledge of what mud tasted like in many forms. He was a connoisseur of sorts, thanks to his cousin. This particular potion tasted of garden-mud. Gritty, well-nourished, with the aftertaste of worms and slugs and other crawling life forms.

His tongue ran over his teeth, feeling bits of things against his tongue. Almost like he'd eaten some sand. "Yuck," he whispered with a shudder.

"Yes," Snape muttered. "Eat your soup." He picked the newspaper back up, but this time opened to a page where Harry couldn't read about Quirrell. The man picked up a cup of coffee and quietly sipped it.

With a sigh, Harry worked his clumsy fingers around the spoon and worked at eating his soup without spilling all of it. It was a frustrating, seemingly impossible task. After making a complete mess of his shirt, Harry had only eaten a small portion of the soup.

"Perhaps soup isn't the best option."

Harry flinched at the voice that had broken the silence. He glanced up to notice Snape watching him. A dozen comments jumped to Harry's mind but he managed to swallow all but the least caustic. "Perhaps." It came out as an unfortunate echo of Snape's cold voice.

A slight narrowing of those dark eyes, that was all he got. Then the soup was whisked away, his shirt was cleaned, and Snape was holding out a piece of toast. "Try this instead. It should still be bland enough to not upset your stomach."

Harry took the toast and nibbled on it. Snape nodded after a moment and picked up his coffee again.

Silence fell in the hospital wing. It was a strange, easy quiet, broken only by the sounds of two people eating and the chirping of birds outside. Harry found himself relaxing.

"When am I going back to the Dursleys?" The question had been snuggled in the back of Harry's mind for awhile now.

"When you're ready," Snape answered, flipping the page of his newspaper. "I'd send you now, except if your relatives don't administer the potions perfectly you'll have lasting effects from your reaction."

Harry had no doubt his relatives wouldn't even let the potions into their house, much less give them to Harry on some sort of schedule. "Lasting effects?" Harry polished off the first piece of toast, only to find another being offered. He took it, but played with it for a moment rather than eat it.

"The 'twitching', as you put it. I wouldn't want our Golden Boy to be anything but perfect." There was a dark sneer in Snape's voice as he said that.

Harry looked down at the toast at the nickname. It made his stomach curl, the thought of being some sort of hero because his parents had died. Died to protect him.

"Three weeks," Snape continued, "maybe four, depending on how you react to the potions." There was a rustle of paper, but Harry didn't look up. "You'll have to stay here until you're completely better."

The toast fell from Harry's hands. "Three weeks?" he whispered. "_Here?"_ Horror filled his voice, his eyes wide as he gazed up at the professor. Harry could barely stand being in the hospital wing for an hour, much less for three weeks!

Oddly, Snape seemed to take it personally. "Yes," he snarled, angry, "three weeks with me. Oh, the horrors."

Harry blinked, startled.

The angry glint faded from Snape's eyes. His head tipped to the side, his eyes narrowed.

"In the hospital wing?" Harry's voice came out quietly, not entirely sure his voice wouldn't set the man off again.

"What's wrong with the hospital wing?" The darkness had faded from Snape's voice, back to cold and empty. Curious, maybe.

"It's the hospital wing!" Harry gestured around. "I can't be in here for three weeks! I'll… die!"

The corners of his professor's lips twitched. "I doubt it. Students do not die before I say they're allowed to."

Harry stared at his greasy, evil potions professor. He couldn't quite decide if that had been some sort of a joke, of if the man was serious. Slowly, he picked up his dropped breakfast and started to nibble at the buttery toast. His eyes trailed around the white, empty walls. What in the world was he going to do in here for three more weeks?

"But you're not going to stay in the hospital wing much longer," Snape muttered. "I'm not walking all the way up here multiple times a day just to take care of you, Potter. I have far too much to do."

Harry's heart soared at the thought of not having to stay here. He grinned. "Then where am I staying?"

This time Snape really did smile. Harry pulled away, the little hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. "You'll be staying with me," the professor sneered.

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 3: Inside the Snake's Home

**Sorry for the long break between updating. My part-time job returned to a full-time job... plus. It's hard to find the inspiration to write while having to write 50+ hours a week.  
**

**Thank you Shenzuul, Alex, Wilona Riva, SAGGYHERMAN, ChicagoMyth, SnapesYukuai, CatalystOfTheSoul, KoiGirlPGSM, irezel, Zireael07, Weller4ever, Anne Camp, DancingInSunlight, Nonasuki-chan, Hokesan, Nefari, 'Guest', BlackRoseDecending, StarNightsBlack, kat, and Sylvr for the awesome reviews. :)**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

"Potter."

Harry hadn't really been sleeping, but there wasn't much else to do in the silence of the hospital wing. Besides, he'd found that the calmer and sleepier he stayed, the less his body twitched and moved. He opened his eyes, gazing up at his potions professor. "Time for lunch?"

"Yes." The man continued to stand there, staring at him. "We'll be eating in my rooms from now on, I'm already sick of walking."

Harry blinked a few times, then shrugged and tried to sit up. His arms trembled when he put any weight on them, muscles in his back twitching as he levered himself into a sitting position. He got there… but he didn't last long before collapsing back into the pillows.

Snape just watched.

"I… can't…" Harry admitted quietly.

An arched eyebrow. "I didn't expect you could."

Harry stared at his professor, wondering what was going to happen next. The man wasn't very good at explaining things. "Then how-"

His question was cut off as Snape yanked the blankets off Harry's legs, scooped him up, and deposited him into a nearby chair. He held onto Harry's shoulders long enough to make sure Harry wasn't going to fall over forwards, and then reached back to the bed to grab the blanket. He tossed it into Harry's lap. "Don't get cold."

"Okay…" Harry held onto the blanket in his twitching arms, wondering how in the world being in a chair would help him get to the dungeons. It didn't seem much better than the bed.

Snape turned to the chair and gave it a simple command. "Up."

To Harry's astonishment, the chair did just that. Smoothly, the chair floated a few inches into the air and hovered there – even tipping back just a bit so that Harry could lean against the back of the chair.

"I assume you know how to fly," Snape drawled, "being the Quidditch star and all."

Harry flushed a bit, but focused on moving the chair forwards. It slid easily through the air. Not as responsive as a broom, but definitely controllable.

"It won't go much higher; it's not spelled for jaunts to the stars. But it'll help you get around the castle until your legs regain their strength." Snape stalked from the hospital wing, holding the door open. "I don't have all day," the man snarled.

Harry floated the chair towards the door, struggling to keep his mind focused on where he was going. The chair banged loudly against the door jam when Harry's leg moved and made him lose concentration. He glanced up at the professor. "Sorry."

A roll of the eyes was the answer. "Come." The man moved off through the hallways, not looking back. Harry, after a few seconds of staring, followed.

…

.

…

"How you ever managed to fly a broom…" Snape grumbled, directing Harry's floating chair to the table in his small flat in the dungeon of the castle. "You knocked over more suits of armor than Peeves."

"I said I was sorry," Harry muttered crossly, his arms against his chest. His eyes were feeling heavy, fighting back a yawn. Focusing on the trip and the increasingly irate professor were drawing on his nerves. "I've never flown a _chair_ before."

"The concept is the same," Snape snapped as the chair thumped against the ground. "I'll expect you not to destroy my home with your blundering."

Harry slumped farther into the chair, fixing a scowl on his face. "You couldn't do better," he whispered.

A plate dropped in front of him with a clatter. Buttered toast, some crackers, and a bowl of thick oats appeared. "Eat. _Try_ not to make a mess."

Harry watched the professor settle into a chair on the farthest edge of the table, picking up a piece of his own toast and spreading some butter on it. Then Harry let himself be distracted by the wonder that was Snape's place.

To his knowledge, no student had ever been in here. It was a common and ever-present dare, but only the twins had even attempted it. They hadn't gotten far. Word was that potions was the cleanest classroom in the country for two months after their failed attempt, although neither twin would admit to being caught.

Snape lived… normally. Harry hadn't known was he was expecting – potions ingredients everywhere, bubbling cauldrons with mist on the counters, bats? But it certainly wasn't normalcy. The eat-in kitchen was older, but clean and serviceable. A few dishes sat on the counter, a tea kettle on the stove. The living room that they'd passed through was the same: definitely old, but clean, well cared for, and organized.

Little lights glowed from the ceiling, just like they did in the dorms. Magical lights. Harry stared up at them, watching them flicker, wondering what kept them going. He'd never gotten a straight answer out of Hermoine. Spells needed energy to drive them – continued energy – and the lights just _were_. Something about lines.

Harry ran a hand over his face, feeling every ache of his body. Little bumps covered the surface of his skin. At least the green pus wasn't oozing out of him anymore. That had been three shades of disgusting.

Slunk down in his chair, Harry could almost have fallen asleep, lost in his own thoughts. Snape's home wasn't even cold – there was a crackling fire that gave the place a cozy warmth. Curled under his blanket, Harry yawned.

"I told you to eat something."

Harry blinked heavily and sat up, his muscles spasming horribly at the strain. He reached out and took the toast, struggling through eating the food when he'd rather be sleeping.

He looked up to find Snape staring at him. "What?" he asked. Something was pulling at his mind. It felt like the world was dropping away from him. Spinning.

"You'll take a nap after lunch."

Harry wanted to argue. He was almost twelve – he didn't need to take naps! – but the pulling sensation swamped through his brain just then. He gave a startled gasp as his body was yanked from his control. It spasmed and twitched, making him fall from the ground and land roughly on the floor.

He lay there, once it had settled, his eyes closed. Breathing in and out. Moving his fingers and toes, just to reassure himself that they were under his control again. Tired.

Oh so very tired.

Cold fingers against his forehead. They brushed against his bangs. "You tired yourself out." The voice was like ice in his mind. "You'll need to be more careful for awhile."

Harry couldn't put together a reply. So he just let himself fall asleep on Snape's kitchen floor.

…

.

…

Warmth. Heaviness pulling at his arms and legs. A decidedly fuzzy, sleepy feeling in his brain.

It took a lot of effort for Harry to fight the delicious feeling of sleep away and pry his eyes open. It took a lot more effort to process what he was seeing. He was surrounded by books.

Was he in the library? Had he fallen asleep… His arm twitched, unsettling the thick blanket.

Snape. He was sick. He'd fallen asleep on Snape's kitchen floor. And now he was surrounded by books.

Very carefully, he pushed himself into something that resembled sitting. His arms trembled and ached, his stomach muscles clenching painfully at the movement. But he now had the ability to look around.

It was a small room. Books filled shelves from nearly floor to ceiling. A small desk, messy and shedding papers like Aunt Marge's dog shed hair, sat along the far wall beside an old-looking arm chair. The small bed – maybe even a cot – that Harry was lying on took up quite a bit of the room. The door that led to the room was cracked open. Light shone from beyond.

It was… if the word could even be applied to the greasy man… a somewhat _cozy_ den.

Curiosity satisfied, Harry dropped back down, resting his head against the pillows and quietly assuring his aching muscles that he wouldn't try moving again soon.

That was when his bladder started to complain about the lack of necessary trips to the toilet. Harry squirmed a bit under the covers and curled himself into a ball, trying his best to ignore his body. If he could just go back to sleep…

His legs twitched, a sharp stab of pain rocketing up his spine. Harry hissed and slowly stretched his legs.

"You're awake."

Harry froze. Then looked over towards the door. The professor was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, face lost in shadow. "I guess." Harry's voice cracked and he winced. He licked his lips, swallowed heavily, and opened his mouth to ask about a trip to the toilet, only to find the man gone. "Of course."

Before Harry could grumble too much, Snape was back, this time with a glass of water. He hesitated next to the small cot, a scowl on his face, glancing from the cup to Harry and back. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, his back perfectly straight and touching as little of the bed as possible, silently helping Harry sit up enough for a sip of water.

"Thanks," Harry said.

Snape made a snorting sound in the back of his nose. Harry decided to take it as a strange form of 'you're welcome'.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly five o'clock." The man bit out the words, shifting uncomfortably on the side of the bed. The glass of water was spun in his fingers, round and round and round.

Silence.

Harry studied his second-most-hated professor, not at all sure how to feel about the man sitting on the side of his bed. He still wasn't sure how he felt about having to live with the man for the next few weeks. The man was angry, bitter, and hated Harry with every cell of his body. Harry – while he happily returned the favor for an hour's stint during potions – couldn't quite wrack up enough hatred for long periods of time. Snape, on the other hand, seemed ready to spend the next several weeks doing a blasting impression of a thunderstorm.

"You have a lot of books."

Snape's dark eyes narrowed at the comment, abruptly standing. He set the cup onto a small bed-side table and turned as if to leave.

"Wait," Harry said, his body suddenly reminding him of his earlier needs, "I… can…" His face warmed as he struggled through how to ask for help using the toilet.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Snape glowered at him. "Forgotten how to speak, have we? Or is our little golden boy expecting us all to be able to read his every demand."

"I need to use the toilet," Harry managed to spit out. The expression on Snape's face darkened at the end of the sentence, but Harry gamely pressed on. "Can you… help…" His voice trailed off to non-existence, his face feeling hot enough to burst into flames.

Empty, dark eyes. Then the sound of a sour sigh and the blanket vanished to be replaced by arms behind his shoulders and under his knees. None-so-gently, Harry was carted to the bathroom.

Then, apparently trying to be as cruel as humanly possible, Snape carried him to the kitchen table, where he forced another mud-flavored potion down Harry's throat.

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 4: Lessons in Pain

**Rather horribly sick with a sinus infection. Dizzy, bloody, nauseated... I got the whole works.  
**

**Not up to reading closely for grammar at the moment. Apologies. It should be good, but let me know if you see anything glaring that needs fixing.  
**

**Thank you Weller4ever, Shenzuul, Nefari, karisaren, autumngold, SAGGYHERMAN, 'guest', kdm13, irezel, hazeldragon, and BlackRoseDecending for the awesome reviews. :) And to the 2,500ish other 'pageviews' that didn't leave a review. :p  
**

**Yes, this story has a plot. I promise. And an ending. This story will probably be ~12 chapters long. Maybe a bit more depending on what kind of tangents happen.  
**

**Should be keeping up this every-couple-days uploading thing. I'm a bit ahead with writing.  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

Ron and Harry had spent hours and hours debating various topics over games of chess. One of their favorite subjects was the question of what Snape did in the privacy of his rooms after class let out. One of the twins (Harry still couldn't tell them apart) had managed to convince Ron that the man slept in a coffin and spent his evenings drawing blood for illegal potions. Hermione generally refused to participate – usually while muttering something about respecting teachers – but had spoken up the one time Harry had seemed just a little convinced by Ron's continued arguments towards vampire-Snape.

Between thoughts that he brewed illegal potions and dreamt up ever-new ways to make cauldrons unscrubable, Harry had high hopes for Snape's evening activities. If nothing else, it _had_ to be interesting to watch. Now, even though Harry was sitting in said living room, watching said man, he still couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Snape did… absolutely nothing.

After setting a plate of toast and crackers on the small side table and dropping a ratty book next to Harry's plate, the man had settled himself into a chair, propped an ankle on a knee, steepled his fingers in front of his nose and did nothing. Apparently staring into nothingness, Snape just sat there.

Harry found himself watching, more and more amazed as the minutes wore on. He scratched idly at his arm. The bumps on his arm were starting to get crusty, feeling itchy when they brushed up against the soft fabric of the couch. His fingers twitched and Harry dropped his hand back into his lap, playing with the frayed ends of the blanket.

Eventually, watching someone do nothing grew boring. Harry picked up the book and quietly paged through it. Pictures of dark creatures scattered through the book caught his interest and Harry flipped back to the cover. An Introduction on Darke Creatures: book one it read in old, flowery script.

The book tumbled from his fingers when they spasmed, thunking solidly on the floor. Harry winced at the sound.

"Appreciated the book that much?" The voice of the potions professor broke the silence. "Or finally come to grips with your inability to read?"

Harry glanced up at Snape with a glower. "It fell."

Snape's eyes swiveled to gaze into his. There was a beat of quiet. "It fell, sir," the man corrected.

Harry nodded, breaking eye contact and looking towards the kitchen. He glanced back when he heard the creak of the chair and saw Snape moving across the room. His shoes made little sound on the rugs scattered over the stone floor. Stopping in front of the couch, he stooped to grab the book and held it out.

"Thanks," Harry said, taking the book and remembering to add on a, "sir".

A nasally snort was the reply – another strange attempt at a 'you're welcome' – and Snape turned away, taking Harry's empty plate. "I'll make you more toast and you'll see that you eat it." Harry was quickly realizing that even outside of class, Snape didn't waste time asking for opinions. Everything was a command.

It took only a few minutes for the man to return. The toast was warm and evenly covered with butter. Harry picked up a piece and nibbled on the crust. "What were you doing?"

Snape's eyes narrowed slightly. "Occlumency." Harry tipped his head to the side, trying to decide if he'd heard the word before. Fortunately, Snape saved him from having to admit he didn't know what 'occlumency' was. "I was clearing my mind, going over memories and saving them for later. It is an advanced form of meditation."

"Oh."

"You will not fall asleep on the couch. Inform me when you are ready for bed."

Apparently the end of the conversation, Snape made his way over to one of the overcrowded bookshelf and grabbed a book. Settling himself back into the chair, nose already buried deep between the pages, Snape seemed ready to spend the rest of the evening in silence.

Harry fingered the book on 'Darke Creatures' and sighed. Perhaps a little too loudly.

"Is there something else you require?"

His head jerked up. "N-no," he stumbled. "I'm…" He couldn't quite dare himself to admit that he was a little bored. That, and the thought of four weeks sitting in silence was depressing. He studied his fingertips.

"Would you prefer a different book?" Snape's voice was silky and cold, slicing through the silence of the room. "The way Professor McGonagall goes on about your brilliance at Defense, I would have thought you'd enjoy a book on the darker creatures."

"No. This one's good." Harry opened the book to the first page, deliberately looking down at the book and trying to read it.

The silence that fell was stilted and awkward, but Snape obviously didn't care. Nose buried back in his book, Snape seemed content to ignore the world.

The quiet was pressing and loud on Harry's ears. He sat still, eyes running over and over and over the same words, not really processing what was on the page. His body twitched now and then, shifting itself uncontrollably. Sharp pains stabbed up his legs every few minutes. Harry tried to keep the winces to a minimum.

Finally he set the book down, defeated. He looked up.

Black eyes. Snape. Less than two feet away.

Harry flinched backwards, pressing himself into the back of the couch. He could feel his heart racing in his chest. "Pro-"

"You are in pain." It wasn't a question.

Harry didn't bother answering. He just sat as still as possible and stared at the man.

There was something that flickered through Snape's eyes. Harry just barely caught sight of it before the dead, cold gaze of a potion master returned. Taking a step backwards, Snape pulled a hand out of his pocket and held it out, two small pills resting on the palm of his hand. "Take these."

"Muggle medicine?" Harry blinked, but reached for the pills. "I thought wizards…"

"Most wizards do not understand the workings of the muggle world and the advances they have made. Ibuprofen works nearly as well as a pain-relief potion, if not as fast." Snape vanished off into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.

Harry watched the little pills roll around in his palm. "And I won't react to them, like a potion?"

"Extremely unlikely."

With that reassurance, Harry popped the pills into his mouth and reached out for the glass of water. His hand shook badly and Snape quietly raised an eyebrow, then held the cup to Harry's mouth. Pills gone, a new question popped into Harry's head. "Why couldn't I have gotten those earlier then?"

Snape set the cup on the side table. "Pain exists for a reason, Potter. It teaches things. Sets limits and boundaries. Without pain, we would destroy ourselves." Harry saw a tiny shudder run down the man's back. Some sort of dark memory.

"But now…"

"There is no point in needless pain. I know the difference." He turned and walked back to his chair. "You'll sit here for a half-hour so I may monitor you. Then you will go lie in bed for the remainder of the evening."

Harry thought about protesting, about refusing to go to bed after having slept most of the day away. But a half-hour later, when Snape settled him into that floating chair from the hospital wing and sent Harry back to bed, Harry couldn't find it in him to argue over-much. He was tired. Blissfully tired and pain free.

As his head grew fuzzy and his eyes too heavy to stay open, he felt the blankets shift around him, pulling in closer to his body. And maybe a press of cold fingers to his forehead – right on top of his scar.

…

.

…

Madame Pomfrey had nervously hovered for the first few nights after Harry's so-called Adventure with Quirrell, ready with a small drought of Dreamless Sleep. She – and Professor McGonagall – had been sure that the horrors he'd witnessed would cause a lack of sleep. Both had watched him closely until school had let out, ever-ready to jump to his aide.

Harry had not had a single nightmare. In fact, he'd gone to sleep dreaming of his parents and the family he'd once had. Only now and then did strange bits sneak their way in. Faces on the backs of heads, but just for a moment. A mirror here and there. Hours spent perusing the photo album Hagrid had given him had effectively chased away the worst of the dreams.

The photo album was tucked securely away in his trunk, which was somewhere other than by his bedside. Harry had lost his odd sense of security.

The nightmares his teachers had worried about suddenly arrived with full force.

Harry tossed and turned on the small cot, his body protesting the movements. But trapped in his dreams, Harry could do nothing about the pain. Over and over he watched the final moments of his Defense professor.

The way his skin bubbled and charred. The sticky smell of burning flesh. And the screams. The horrible, two-tone screams of agony and sudden fear.

Harry squirmed at the sight of Quirrell's scalp moving, eyes and a mouth formed from pale, colorless skin. He struggled against the hissing, sibilant voice. He tried to run from the grasping, cold hands.

Again and again to listen to the tiny voice in the back of his mind that had almost given in. The one that had caused his fingers to twitch towards his pocket. To give the demon the stone and be done with it. He was just eleven after all.

He woke with a start, covered in sweat, his thick blanket having long been kicked off. The small room was dark, only the small glow of a light in the corner giving the books a magical glow. Harry lay back against the pillows, staring upwards into the darkness, trying to calm his racing heart.

He never noticed a dark man sitting in the corner, watching. A ghost against the books, eyes shadowed with pain and loss.

After several minutes, Harry shifted himself around on the bed and curled up. That was when he noticed a gleaming object propped up on the small table by his glasses. He reached out for it, running his fingers over the cool glass and the rough picture frame.

A young woman beamed out from the picture, twirling this way and that as if showing off a new dress. Red hair flew as she spun once, her green eyes twinkling.

Even in the semi-darkness, Harry recognized her. He'd stared at her image for uncountable hours over the past weeks. He didn't know why her picture was there, but he found himself not caring. Maybe tomorrow he'd figure it out, but not tonight.

He set the picture back on the table and lay his head down, trying his best to ignore the twitching of his limbs. Finally he fell back asleep under the watchful eyes of his mother.

And the ghostly man in the corner. Who came up and tucked in the blankets after Harry had fallen asleep. Who touched the boy's forehead once, gently, feeling the rough edges of an old scar.

Then vanished like he never existed in the first place.

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	6. Chapter 5: The Return of the Stone

**Slowly recovering from my sickness. Finally get a day off to laze about and focus on getting well, so I figured I'd finish up this next chapter. I'll be gone at a three-day conference in the city early next week, so the next chapter should be up Thursday-Fridayish.  
**

**Thank you Shenzuul, Constance Truggle, Badbonita, 13AkiraKuranXIII, BlackRoseDecending, mirthrilandtj, Anne Campe aka Obi-quiet, Zireael07, SAGGYHERMAN, snapemartyr, autumngold, ChicagoMyth, irezel, ShadowedFang, and dancer4813 for the stellar reviews. They really mean a lot! :)  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

Musty books. The smell permeated the last of Harry's dreams, allowing his mind to transition strangely from a dream of being trapped in the library with Percy to lying in Snape's den. He picked up his head, staring blearily around at the books, struggling to figure out what was real and what had been a dream.

Harry hesitated, then slowly sat upright. There was a tiny twinge in his muscles, an echo of the deep-seated ache that had plagued him the past few days, but that was it. He carefully stretched his arms over his head, feeling his muscles pull. A small tingle of pain in his fingers.

Grinning, Harry moved his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there, enjoying being able to sit without pain. "Brilliant," he whispered, head suddenly filling with hopes of a miraculous recovery and an early escape from the clutches of his potions professor. Perhaps he could even weasel his way over to Ron's…

He pushed himself to his feet, took a half-step, and promptly collapsed to the ground. Stars burst in his vision when his head connected with the floor. Muscles feeling like mush, Harry rolled onto his back and lay there, staring at the ceiling.

"Enjoy that, did you?"

Harry closed his eyes, fighting an embarrassed blush. "I thought-"

"It's obvious what your little mind 'thought'. Perhaps you should let someone else do your thinking for you."

A shadow crossed over Harry's face and he opened his eyes, staring into Snape's dark gaze. A half-dozen retorts floated through Harry's mind, but what popped out of his mouth was a pleasant, "Do you think that would help?"

Snape blinked. Then blinked again.

Harry was just starting to worry that maybe he'd broken the sour man when Snape pulled out his wand. Harry winced, a half-remembered story about Snape turning George into a parrot bursting into his brain, but Snape merely waved his wand and quietly levitated Harry back onto the cot.

"I would refrain from too much movement, Potter." Snape's wand vanished into a pocket and the man turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

Harry watched the door swing almost shut, then snorted. "I would refrain from too much movement," he copied quietly, annoyed at the obvious comment. Arms crossed over his chest, he stared up towards the ceiling. But there wasn't much to look at, and it really wasn't worth brooding over something as silly as Snape practically ordering him not to fall out of bed.

After a few moments, he sat up again. His muscles protested the movement. Not as painful as the other days, but definitely still tired and sore. Propping up several pillows behind his back, he leaned against them and relaxed, setting himself up for yet another morning full of quiet boredom.

His stomach grumbled. That's when he noticed a bowl of warm oats and a slice of toast sitting by his bedside. A steaming mug of pumpkin juice and a vial of potion completed the tray. "When did…"

Harry glanced towards the door. It stayed where it was, almost shut, gentle light coming from the crack around the frame.

Reaching for the tray, Harry's fingers brushed over the potion. He thought about leaving it for later, picking up the pumpkin juice instead, but something right outside his door creaked. Scowling, Harry grabbed the vial, pulled the stopper, and downed it with a shudder.

…

.

…

Harry gently closed the book on 'Darke Creatures' and set it down a bit farther away from him than absolutely necessary. He'd just finished the chapter on inferi – undead, mindless corpses with a penchant for killing and utter destruction. At first, it had been relatively interesting… in a creepy kind of way. The story of how inferi came to be was almost entrancing. Ancient Roman sacrifices, gladiators, twisted blood magics. A powerful mage named _Di Manes_ who used the sacrifices in an attempt to rule the world. It read like a fiction novel.

But then the author had decided to go into modern instances of inferi – in graphic detail. An orphanage during the Second World War where the children were slaughtered, turned into inferi, and sent to Hitler as a present by a dark wizard. How the Bolsheviks in Russia murdered a man named Rasputin and used him to destroy the Russian empyreal line and send the country into the hands of the Soviets. A small horde of inferi, created by Voldemort out of his less-than-loyal followers, that reportedly haunt a vault in the Department of Mysteries.

Harry hadn't been able to stop reading. It was almost like the book was spelled to prevent someone from setting it down. To make sure the reader read every description of horror, pain, and terror the author had to offer. It sure worked. Harry had absolutely no desire to ever see an inferi in person, much less attempt to make one.

He eyed the book carefully, not entirely fooled by the silent way it sat on the blanket, and wormed his way over to the edge of the bed. Pomfrey's chair sat within easy reach. It took a bit of squirming, his arms shaking by the time he was seated in the chair, but he made it. "Up!" he commanded, the chair rising gently into the air and floating towards the door.

Away from the creepy book.

Snape was sitting at the kitchen table, papers spread out all around him. His hair cascaded down, hiding his face. He was wearing a black shirt and pants, but the ubiquitous robes were missing. Quiet mutters broke the silence as now and then Snape reached forwards to write something on a sheet.

Harry set the chair down next to the table and leaned forwards to see what Snape was working on. He'd just caught sight of a picture of the Sorcerer's Stone when the papers were suddenly whisked into a pile and into Snape's hands.

"That was the Stone!" he said, pointing to where the paper had been.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Indeed." He rapped the edge of the papers on the table a few times, straightening the pile, then set them aside. "I suppose it is time for lunch."

Harry glanced at the pile of papers. "Can I see what you're working on?"

"No."

"But I know all about the Stone-" Harry was cut off as Snape stood, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. Almost nothing Snape did ever came with a loud noise – the man moved as silent and swooping as a bat – and the swift movement caught Harry off guard.

"Do you?" Snape's eyes were dark. "And what is it Your Supreme Excellency knows?"

Harry scowled. "I know lots of things. Flamel made one. It makes a potion that lets you live forever, or to turn things into gold." He stopped, a dull burning in his stomach informing him that Snape was far from impressed, and probably wasn't going to be any more impressed by continuing the rather short list of things he knew.

"So you know exactly as much as any other first year student." Snape turned and stalked over to the kitchen counter, setting down the pile of papers. He grabbed a few boxes out of cupboards as Harry brooded. "Do you happen to know how the Stone was made?"

No, Harry did not. Honestly, most of what he knew about the Sorcerer's Stone could be found on the back of a Chocolate Frog card. The rest were small things he remembered from Hermione. He found himself fiddling with his fingers, rather than look up to see what Snape's expression was.

"I'll take the silence as a 'no'," Snape sneered. He was leaning over Harry, having moved in that strange, silence way of his. Harry almost kept the flinch in check when Snape's hands appeared in front of him, setting a cutting board, knife, and several small potatoes on the table. "Your cutting skills are atrocious. You'll practice. I want these peeled then diced. _Diced_, Potter. Not cubed, not sliced, and certainly not mangled or mashed like you usually do. Diced."

Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as Snape moved back to the kitchen, getting a pot filled with water and setting it on the stove to boil. After a few seconds, he picked up the smaller knife and slowly started to take off slivers of potato peel.

Suddenly hands appeared. Harry couldn't stop the startled reaction this time, freezing solidly in place as the hands grasped his. The fingers were cold, almost inhuman, arms disappearing behind him. Cold breath brushed his cheek. Very slowly, the strange hands repositioned the potato and the knife in Harry's fingers. Then, still slowly, proceeded to take a long, winding peel off the potato. It took only seconds for the potato to be peeled and set back down.

"Ok," Harry said softly and the hands vanished. Harry sat still for a long second, then twisted around, expecting to see Snape behind him, watching him cut a potato with his clumsy fingers.

Only Snape wasn't there. Snape was off in the kitchen, mixing up something in a bowl. The space behind him was empty.

Feeling a shudder go down his spine at the creepily quick and silent way Snape could apparently move, Harry picked up the second potato and attempted to peel it in one long strand. It ended up being four pieces, but Harry grinned. The third potato went even better.

Harry set down the knife, wincing as a spasm raced down his arm and made his hand shake. He couldn't wait until the tremors were gone for good.

He risked a glance at Snape – who seemed to be paying him no attention what-so-ever – and picked up the bigger knife to cut up the potatoes. He was barely through his first few cuts when the hands appeared again, repositioning his fingers so they were wrapped tightly around the handle of the knife. They curled his other fingers oddly against the potato and cut a few times, the blade slicing quickly through the potato. When one of Harry's fingers drifted to the back of the knife blade, the hands quickly corrected it, then left him be.

"Are you finished?" Snape's cold voice drifted from the kitchen just as Harry was finishing, than man appearing like magic beside the table. His nimble fingers prodded at the winding potato peels and the tiny little cubes of flesh. A sound came from Snape's throat. "Adequate."

There was a tiny glow of pride in Harry's chest. It was the first semi-compliment the professor had ever given to a Gryffindor – to his knowledge, anyway.

The potatoes vanished into the pot of boiling water and Snape settled back down at the kitchen table, steepling his fingers in front of his nose. The two gazed at each other in silence – green into black – then Harry's eyes flickered towards the kitchen.

"The Sorcerer's Stone can only be made by very powerful practitioners." Snape's voice cut through the sound of boiling water. "It takes a combination of rare and highly unstable potions ingredients as well as a very solid base of magic to even begin to create a Stone."

Harry pushed a leftover bit of potato around the table, surprised to find Snape willing to talk about the secretive pile of papers. He wondered if someone had slipped Snape a potion to loosen his tongue. "Like what kind of ingredients, sir?"

Snape was quiet a moment. "Phoenix gizzard, tears from a unicorn, the dying breath of an infant child, Inferi blood…"

Harry shuddered as Snape's voice drifted back to silence. Those were very dark ingredients. "That doesn't sound pleasant."

"It's not."

"And Flamel _made_ one?" Harry's voice cracked a bit as he stressed the word 'made', horrified that a man Harry had held in rather high esteem (he was Dumbledore's friend, wasn't it?) could have made such a dark potion.

Something that was almost a smile flashed across Snape's voice, but his dark eyes were cold and still. "Yes." His fingers drifted away from his face and rested on the table. "Something that can grant its creator endless life must be created through the taking of life. It's a balance."

Harry couldn't help glancing at the papers at the counter. Softly, his voice stuttering and almost unwilling to speak, he said, "You're researching it so you can make one too?"

Snape's eyes hardened. "I have no desire to live forever, Potter. Do you happen to remember the list of potions rules from class?"

"Um… sort of?"

"The Sorcerer's Stone was created with a _potion_. That means the most reliable way to destroy it is…?"

Memory sparked in the back of Harry's brain. Hermione's voice drilling the fourteen basic potion 'rules' into Ron's head. "With another potion!" The thoughts suddenly clicked. "Dumbledore said-"

"_Professor_ Dumbledore."

"Professor Dumbledore said that Flamel destroyed the Stone. That it was too dangerous…" Harry was almost breathless with the realization of what Snape was doing. "That's what you're working on."

"That's what I've been working on for over a year, Potter," Snape said coldly. "I would have been finished by now if I didn't have to deal with incompetent first year potions students that have inane allergies."

Harry brushed off the insult with years of practice. "That's why the Stone was at Hogwarts. To protect it until you finished the potion to destroy it."

Snape studied Harry for a moment, then got up and went over to the stove. He returned a few moments later with bowls of stew and a plate filled with small soup crackers.

"Aren't you almost done?" Harry blew on the stew to cool it, then let the warm, rich fluid run over his tongue. "You're a potions master and you've had over a year-" His hand chose that moment to twitch, a sharp spike of pain racing up his arm, and the spoon dropped into the bowl with a splash of hot liquid. Harry scowled.

Snape's voice was dark and sharp. "I have to find the precise amounts and combinations of ingredients to counteract each of the components of the stone. It's like a very complex puzzle, Potter. One you lack the ability to even comprehend. Each time I find a new ingredient, I need to go back and change all the others to match. I have been one ingredient away from a completed potion several times, only to find the addition of the last ingredient destroys the rest of the potion, making the months of work put into that particular potion a pointless waste of time." Snape punctuated the last few words by crumbling several crackers in his fist. His eyes gleamed like dark stars, anger obvious on his face.

Harry was quiet. "Oh. But I thought Dum- _Professor_ Dumbledore said the Stone was already destroyed…"

"Is the _revered_ Harry Potter is the headmaster's close confidante now? The most powerful and respected wizard on the planet would – of course – tell an eleven-year-old every little secret." Snape sneered, furious. "There would, in no possible universe, be a time where the headmaster might color the truth a bit so a _child_ might sleep better at night and allow the _adults_ worry about the Stone." Snape grabbed his bowl of soup and stalked from the room, vanishing down the hallway.

The pile of papers the man had been working on floated behind him.

"But Voldemort almost got the Stone," Harry said softly to the empty room. He looked down at his hands, which had started to tremble. Memories of last night's horrible dreams rushed through his mind. "And me."

Nobody answered.

A pair of dark eyes watched Harry as he finished his meal in pained silence, the shaking tremors becoming more pronounced as the passing of time.

Two hands, cold and pale, appeared in the shadows. The eyes glanced down at them, studying his hands, almost like they could still feel the warmth of Harry's fingers learning to cut properly.

The dark man waited, attentive, as Harry maneuvered his chair over to the couch and collapsed onto it. That book – 'Darke Creatures' – appeared in Harry's hands, but he barely made it two pages before his eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep. Careful not to touch the book, the man slid over to the couch and gently touched the scar on Harry's forehead. Then he pulled a soft blanket out of a drawer and covered up the sleeping child.

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	7. Chapter 6: Anger Bubbles Over

**Sorry this took a bit longer than I thought... I got distracted with updating an older fic I'd mostly forgotten about.  
**

**Thank you MsFrizzle, Badbonita, Weller4ever, Wilona Riva, SnapesYukuai, SakuraLisel, BlackRoseDescending, hazeldragon, snapermartyr, Ane Camp aka Obi-quiet, Constance Truggle, 13AkiraKuranXIII, irezel, SAGGYHERMAN, and Nefari for the awesome reviews.  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

Harry was used to boredom. It wasn't unheard of for his relatives to lock him in the cupboard for days on end. Even a week, once, when Harry'd had the nerve to suddenly appear on top of the school's roof. There was little to do in a cupboard where the only light came from between the slats in the door. Oh yes, Harry was used to boredom.

It didn't mean he liked it.

Finally, desperate for something to do other than stare at Snape's living room, Harry opened up the book on Dark Creatures again. He skipped quickly past the section on inferi, then paged through the second chapter, sickened by bloody, angry pictures of a demonic thing known as a 'cambion'. The third chapter was titled 'werewolves' and, after a quick glance through the pictures, Harry decided it was something he could read without too many nightmares.

The book pulled him in again, dragging him through the story of the werewolves with an almost magical focus. There used to be many different breeds of the wolf-like creatures. One of them, known as loup-garou, came over from France and started a horrible war with the other werewolves. For generations, the werewolves fought. Hundreds of innocent lives were lost before a great wizard stopped the violence. Many of the breeds were decimated, most were nearly extinct after the war.

The tiny clock on the wall chimed six o'clock.

Captivated by ancient stories of hexenbeasts and lycanthropes and loup-garou and 'real' werewolves, Harry didn't hear a door click shut on the other side of the room. Nearly soundless footsteps trailed to the side of the couch. "You aren't ready for supper."

Harry flinched at the sudden noise and the book tumbled from his hands, spell broken. It flopped to the ground with a thud. "Um… I…"

Snape's dark eyes narrowed. "Spit it out, Potter."

"I didn't really know I needed to be ready for something." After a beat, he added a soft, "sir." Harry's eyes flickered over to the clock, startled to see it was time to eat already.

"We eat at six o'clock in this house. You shall be ready to eat in the future at that time. For the next few weeks, it is imperative that you drink your potions at the appropriate times." Snape folded his arms across his chest and stared down his nose with a sneer. "You _can_ tell time, can't you?"

Startled by the vehemence in the man's voice, Harry blinked. "Yes, sir," he said quietly. Dropping his eyes, he played with the edge of the blanket draped in his lap. Little dried pustules still adorned the skin on the back of his hands. Like the thought of his illness triggered it, a cramp swam up his arm and he flexed his fingers, wishing away the pain.

The sound of pots moving in the kitchen got Harry to glance up. Snape was in the kitchen, heating something on the stove. His movements seemed quick and sharp, unlike the swooping, smooth way he usually moved, making more noise than usual.

Pushing the blanket away, Harry pulled himself into the hospital chair. His legs still refused to support his weight, his arms burning at being overused. "Up!" he commanded and the chair floated gently into the air. It only took moments for him to be at the kitchen table, in what was quickly becoming 'his' spot.

Snape set a bowl in front of him, filled with thick, chunky casserole. The bowl made a sharp rapping sound as it connected with the table, a vial of potion joining it with a clink. "Do keep this down, I'm tired of cleaning up after idiot students." The dark cloud that hovered around Snape seemed to pulse with anger.

Grabbing a bowl, Snape filled it with casserole and made is if to vanish back from whence he'd come. Harry – in a rather desperate bid for something to do other than read – spoke up. "Are you okay?"

Snape came to a stop, his back straightened, his beetle-black eyes dark. "What makes you ask?"

Harry shrugged, pleased that he'd conned the man into something resembling a conversation.

"Eloquent as always," Snape said darkly. "Our great hero."

"How's your potion going?" Harry picked up his spoon, stirring the steaming casserole in his bowl a few times.

Eyes dark, body tense, Snape's fingers tightened around the bowl he held. "I highly doubt you care." Snape whirled on his heel and vanished into the darkness.

At a loss over the strange conversation and Snape's attitude, Harry sighed and blew on a spoonful of the casserole. Sneaking a bite before dealing with the muddy potion, Harry grinned at finally getting to eat something that didn't taste like unseasoned rice soup.

From down the hallway, there came a crashing noise. It sounded like something – perhaps a bowl – being thrown into a wall. Harry went still, listening for anything more, but silence had fallen over the small flat once again.

...

.

...

"Bed."

Harry glanced up from his book. The man was leaning against the doorframe. Add a hundred pounds, lower the voice an octave, and lose the hair and the greasy professor could double as Uncle Vernon's cousin. There was the same dark, angry undertone to his voice. The same dismissive, commanding attitude.

Harry knew the tone very well. It was usually a prelude to several days of being locked in a cupboard for something he had (or, often, had not) done. However, this was no Uncle Vernon. Harry froze for a long second, watching Snape stare at him. Snape was a teacher. He couldn't throw him in a cupboard. Could he?

Finally Harry simply nodded and closed the book, set the blanket aside, and pulled himself into the floating chair. It wasn't nearly as warm and soft as the couch had been. After getting himself arranged, Harry looked back towards where Snape had been. The hallway was empty.

With a sigh, Harry commanded the chair to take him back to his room. Even though it was only eight o'clock, he wasn't feeling quite up to the task of finding out what kinds of punishment Snape had for over the summer holidays. It wasn't until he'd made it all the way to his cot and arranged the blankets over his legs that he realized he'd left his book behind.

Harry gazed at the door for a long second, chewing on the inside of his lip, but decided it wasn't worth going back. He was lying in a veritable library after all. Reaching for a book at random, Harry grabbed one titled Sensible Potions for Sensible Witches and sat there, staring at the cover. Burn marks darkened one of the edges, the pages wrinkled with water damage. Harry ran his fingers over the embossed letters a few times, wishing he had something to do other than read.

Even homework. Potions homework.

Harry sighed at the almost desperate tone his thoughts had taken and opened the book. He completely missed the inscription on the inside cover. _Happy 16th Birthday Lily_, it read. A nearly illegible name was scrawled underneath, but if one stared hard enough, they might have decided it read _Severus_.

...

.

...

Breakfast on the ninth day of summer holidays was accompanied by several things that took Harry by surprise… other than the fact that he wasn't at home, making his relatives breakfast. One was the grouchy, greasy professor he found himself having to endure. Another was that his bowl of oats had honey on top. The third was Hedwig.

Snape was glaring at the bird in a way that made Harry wonder if Hedwig was going to end up being a part of lunch. As soon as his chair settled into place, he pushed his bowl out of the way, reached out, and pulled Hedwig to the safety of his side of the table. "Hey, girl," he greeted.

The owl hooted softly, preening the little bit of Harry's hair she could reach. Harry laughed softly. "I'm alright. Just a little sick." Over her soft feathers, Harry could see a vein starting to throb in Snape's forehead. The man continued to eat his breakfast in jerky movements.

Apparently satisfied with the state of Harry's health, Hedwig held out her leg, allowing Harry to remove the parchment. Harry grinned at the messy handwriting. "Awesome." He slit the seal and unrolled it, delving into the task of interpreting what Ron had written.

A sharp sound of a spoon slamming into a bowl. "Will you remove that _pet_ from my table?" Snape's voice was commanding and tight.

Harry jerked a bit, looking up at the irate man. Snape was practically shaking with fury. "Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. Sorry." He recoiled at the look Snape gave him at the apology. "Hedwig, head up to the owlery, alright? You can come back tonight and I'll have a letter for you." He ran his fingers over her soft feathers as she cooed a response. With a flurry of wind, she vanished out the small window.

Playing with his letter, Harry darted a glance at his potions professor. "I-" he started.

Snape let out a sound that was something like a snarl. Then he pushed away from the table and vanished into the depths of his flat, muttering to himself. All Harry caught was a rambling set of insults. "Idiot, impolite, disre_spect_ful, mannerless, conceited…"

Harry winced a bit. "What's wrong with him?" he wondered to himself as he grabbed his bowl of breakfast and started eating. The honey was warm and slid down his throat in a way that made his eyes close in delight.

A door slammed. Harry glanced up as Snape stalked back into the kitchen and slammed a vial of potion onto the table. Harry flinched back away from the man's presence. "Just like your father," Snape said darkly, quietly. "Spitting bloody image of him, aren't you? Got his personality down _pat_. He'd be _so bleeding proud_."

Snape turned and stalked towards the door. Although most of Harry felt happy that the greasy, angry git was leaving, a tiny bit of him felt otherwise. He was trapped with this man for who-knew-how-much-longer; he'd better make the best of it. Harry found words tumbling from his mouth. "I'm _sorry_."

Snape paused, half in shadow. His black hair seemed to blend with the darkness of the hallway. There was a derisive snort.

"I've never met a wizard that doesn't like owls," Harry continued, a bit of anger creeping into his own voice. "You don't have to be so mad about it. I'll tell her to stay off the table; it's no big deal."

There was a heavy silence. "You have no idea," Snape said, his voice cold as death, "how little I need your apology, _Potter_."

It was a really bad idea to yell at Snape. Rumor had it the statues outside the dungeon classroom were real students that had gotten up the nerve to yell at the crabby potions master. Doubtless there were plenty of potions that could be made from a mysteriously 'disappeared' student that couldn't protect himself.

Harry found himself very close to yelling anyways. Anger, boredom, and frustration were bubbling inside his chest, threatening to spill over. "I didn't _do_ anything! I don't get why you're so mad at me." His leg was cramping, muscles starting to twitch. An ache was growing behind his eyes.

"Take your potion so you can be rid of your _incompetent_ potions professor and go back to your wonderful life of luxury." Controlled anger simmered in Snape's voice.

Harry snorted. "Yeah, my life's a real _luxury_." He grabbed the potion and angrily yanked out the vial, drinking it in a shuddering gulp. "Happy?" The trembling in his leg had moved to his arm, making him set the vial down harder than he'd planned.

Snape continued to stand there, half in the shadows, half in the light. One step either way would break the almost perfect balance.

Pain raced up Harry's spine. Harry felt the muscles in his arms start to move against his will, shaking and spasming. For a few moments, the world seemed to turn itself inside out. There was an agonizing flare of pain from the back of his head.

When everything steadied again, Harry was lying on the ground, partially under the table. He felt exhausted, broken, and heavy. Letting his eyes fall closed, he relaxed only until a shadow moved to block the light. He cracked one eye open.

Snape was standing over him. Light hit the man's greasy hair, casting his face into shadow.

Harry could feel sleep yanking at him ,wanting to pull him into the dark depths of unconsciousness, but the sight of his potions professor rekindled a bit of that anger. He fought the clawing grip of dreamland, struggling to sit up. "I don't remember my father," he stated, dismayed when his voice slurred like a drunk. "I don't know anything about him; how can I act like him?"

"Stop talking, Potter," Snape ordered. "Go to sleep."

"No." Darkness was creeping at the corners of Harry's vision. He glared at Snape, narrowing his eyes. "I didn't do anything wrong. I don't get why you're so mad at me."

Snape was absolutely silent. "You," he finally said, almost softly, "are the physical embodiment of everything I have ever hated."

Harry stared at him. The grip of anger vanished, lost to the relentless darkness. "Oh."

"I find myself unable to see past it." Snape put his hands into his pockets. His eyes were black pools of shadow, almost indistinguishable from the darkness clawing at Harry's mind. "I tried. I failed. I see no reason to continue a fruitless endeavor."

"Oh." Harry let himself slump back to the ground, shutting his eyes for a moment. "Thanks for telling me."

There was a snort from above him.

Harry found himself unable to open his eyes again. The heaviness was just too much. It had overpowered everything, yanking him down into an abyss. "I don't think you're incompetent," Harry slurred – or he thought he did. It was hard to tell anymore. "Sorry if you thought that."

The blankness stole the rest of what he'd wanted to say and he vanished into nothing.

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	8. Chapter 7: The News Gets Out

**Yay, new chapter. Plot's moving right along now. Expecting for ~15 chapters, this fic. **

**The middle of this chapter feels rushed to me, but all attempts to fix it have resulted in things worse than a simple 'feels rushed'. So I have left it as-is. Let me know your thoughts.  
**

**Thank you Weller4ever, SnapesYukuai, twin1, Thatsallwegot, Stella limegood, icedragon, MsFrizzle, 13AkiraKuranXIII, Zireael07, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, shadowsfriend, saggyherman, hazeldragon, snapemartyr, Sammy Ocean, KoiGirlPGSM, BlackRoseDecending, Aurelia Maddox, IceDragon19, mithrilandtj, and irezel for the awesome reviews.  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

Harry woke up blearily on the cot in Snape's den. The soft blanket from the living room was smothering him in warmth. Harry struggled into a sitting position, his arms and legs still feeling horribly heavy. Groping for his glasses, Harry almost knocked over the tray sitting next to the bed.

When he finally fumbled his glasses into place, Harry peered at the tray in surprise. A glass of water was perched next to Ron's letter. A plate of crackers sat next to a quill, ink, and a fresh sheet of parchment. The book on Darke Creatures and the potions book Harry had perused earlier completed the small tray.

Harry quietly reached for the glass of water and sipped at it. Snape had been furious… Harry had mostly expected to wake up still lying on the cold kitchen floor. The fact that Snape had bothered to move him had to mean something.

…something more than the fact that Snape didn't want a Harry-shaped kitchen rug.

And to have left him the tray? That was almost nice.

Almost. This _was_ Snape after all.

Pulling the blanket up around his shoulders, Harry set the glass of water down and picked up Ron's letter, fingering it and twirling it like a baton as he thought. Snape was something of a mystery. Angry for seemingly no reason, being nice for seemingly no reason.

A phrase floated into Harry's brain. "Physical embodiment of everything I have ever hated." Harry's fingers stopped moving, his body holding still, as he processed that strange phrase. He wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but brain was screaming at him that this was a clue. This was the way to solve the mystery of the Snape.

After another few minutes of staring into the blankness, letting what little he knew about the man percolate around in his mind, Harry sighed and shrugged. Other than Potions class and the occasional encounter in the hallway, he hadn't had much contact with the greasy professor. He just didn't know very much about Snape.

That, and he wasn't the greatest at solving puzzles. He generally just waited until everything went 'click' in his mind and he suddenly knew the answer. The actual process of working to a solution was boring, frustrating, and mostly beyond him.

His eyes drifted to the clean sheets of parchment and a smile flicked onto his face. Fortunately, Harry knew someone who loved puzzles.

Remembering the letter in his hands with a bit of a start, Harry unfurled the note Ron had sent, maneuvering it into a little better light. The words were scribbled messily on the paper.

_Harry, I heard what happened from Mom. Hope you're feeling better and can write back. Stuck with Snape? He's probably going to read this before letting you have it, knowing him, so I can't say much. But you know what I think about the git. Take lots of baths so you don't get greasy. Mom said you can come stay for part of the summer, when you're feeling better. Maybe even before then, if you tried begging. We can wash the Snape off you and play Quidditch in the backyard. Ron._

The idea of spending part of the summer at Ron's place drove most of the worries from Harry's head. He'd never had been allowed to go anywhere other than Mrs. Figg's house before. And to make it even better, the Weasleys didn't have any cats – Harry had asked – although Ron had quietly admitted to the ghoul in the attic.

Reaching for the quill and ink sitting on the tray, ready to write back to his friend, Harry allowed a happy grin to settle on his face. Little by little, his life was starting to come together. First a special school away from the Dursleys, then a friend, then two friends, and now an invitation for spending time at Ron's house?

Harry flipped the parchment over. The backside was perfectly clean still, in need of a note scribble across the back. Harry carefully balanced the opened ink well on the tray, dipped his quill, and then hesitated.

His handwriting was lousy on the best of days. Even after nine months of work, he still hadn't gotten used to how quills wrote. Scribbling against his knee would probably result in something Ron wouldn't be able to read.

Glancing around Snape's den for something to write on, Harry bit his lip. He glanced towards the partially open door as he reached for the book case and pulled out a thick, hard-covered book that was large enough to double as a desk. "Snape's gonna kill me if he finds out about this," he whispered, carefully unrolling the parchment against his new 'desk' and starting to write.

_Ron. Snape's not reading my mail, but he is being a total git. He yells at me for no reason – just like he does in Potions. I'm trapped here for a few more weeks until I'm over this allergy, but I'm sure I can come to your place after I'm better. Listen to this though: the Stone hasn't been destroyed yet! Snape's working on a potion to tear it apart, but it's hard to make and he hasn't done it yet. I'm going to see if I can find out more and I'll let you know. Hope you're having a better summer than me. Harry._

Harry blew against the ink to dry it, then folded up the letter and put it into his pocket to send later. He reached for a new piece of parchment, ready to send a similar letter to Hermione, when a _bang_ sounded through the small flat. It sounded like a door had been slammed shut.

Harry jumped, eyes flashing guiltily towards the door, and hurriedly stuffed the book-desk back onto the bookshelf. He grabbed the small potions book off the tray, leaned back against the pillows, and opened to a random page. Heart racing in his throat at the idea of Snape catching him using one of the books as a writing desk, Harry couldn't get his eyes to focus on the words. The title of the potion – _Guaranteed Stain Remover_ – swam across the page.

For long, quiet minutes, nothing happened. There were no further sounds, the door to the den didn't open, no irate professor marched through the door. Slowly Harry relaxed, allowing the book to fall to his lap.

He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head and putting the potions book back on the tray. "Maybe I should find something else to write on," he muttered, looking around the room again.

His eyes caught on the book he'd been using as a desk. It was really a good thing Snape hadn't barged into the room – Harry had made a mess of putting the book away. It was crooked, upside down, and only half on the shelf, unlike all of the rest of Snape's carefully shelved books. One of the pages seemed to be ripped, dangling out the top (bottom, at the moment) of the book. Wincing, and with another quick glance towards the door, Harry reached out and pulled the book towards him. He flipped open to the right page, hoping to smooth out the torn page and make it less noticeable.

…only it wasn't a torn page.

Harry froze and, after a heart-stopping moment, reached out to slowly pick up the bit of paper that was sticking out of the book. It was a photograph. Harry recognized both the figures trapped within.

One was his mother. She was smiling, leaning against a tree, waving happily. The lake spread out into the background, some mist hugging the trees on the horizon line. She was only a bit older than Harry was – maybe twelve or thirteen – with her red hair done up in a ponytail and her Hogwarts robes looking too big for her.

The other was a preteen boy with ratty robes and long hair. He was standing slightly behind Harry's mother, a smile on his face. His arms were crossed and resting on Lily's shoulders. It was Professor Snape.

_Sev and Lily, 1973_ was written across the bottom of the photo. Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from the picture. "Sev and Lily?" Harry whispered. "Sev… Severus Snape?"

He gave a little start when he realized his nose was about two inches from the photograph, desperate to see… something. _Anything_ that would tell him that this was some sort of forgery. A Slytherin trick. The prank-to-end-all-pranks.

Only Harry knew very well that nobody could have expected him to look through the books in Snape's den. Much less the particular one where this picture was stored.

The photo drifted to the bed, fallen from Harry's numb fingers. "They were friends? My mom and Snape?" Harry's eyes focused on the door, the little crack of light, the person that was on the other side. His mouth moved silently a few times. "How?"

Digging his fingers into his hair, messing it up further, Harry shook his head dazedly. "No. I… It doesn't make sense. I don't believe…"

He picked up the framed picture of his mother that had been sitting beside his bed. She was older in this picture, twirling side to side, smiling happily. Harry let his fingers trace over the image before prying the picture out of the frame and glancing at the back. _Lily, Yule Ball, 1976._ It was in the same, spidery handwriting.

Snape's handwriting.

Snape had known his mother. Snape had pictures of his mother. Snape…

Snape had _given_ a picture of Lily to Harry.

Quietly sliding the picture back into its frame and setting it back on the small shelf, Harry felt a bit numb. He wasn't sure what to think anymore. There was a static-like noise in his ears whenever he thought about the fact that Snape – cruel, greasy, angry, vengeful, hated _Snape_ – and his mother had been friends. Good friends, if the picture was anything to go by.

Harry picked up the book the photo had been tucked into. Potions for Complete Idiots was scrawled across the cover next to a picture of a witch exploding a cauldron. The image looked deceptively like a Shrinking Solution gone wrong - Harry should know. He'd blown up that particular at least four times before figuring it out.

Eyes narrowing, Harry tapped his finger against the black lettering. Thoughts were coming together in his head. "Why does a Potions Master have a book like this?" he wondered. Flipping open the cover, Harry glanced at the inscription page.

_Revenge for the charms book last year. Happy Christmas Sev! Lily_.

Caught up the surprise at seeing his mother's loopy, lost-looking handwriting for the first time and knowing he was holding a book she'd held too, Harry almost forgot it was a present that had been destined for the greasy Professor Snape. Tracing a finger over the twenty-some-year-old inscription, lingering on the old-looking flourish at the end of his mother's name, Harry let his gaze trace back to the door.

Determination suddenly glowed in Harry's eyes and simmered in the set of his face.

The book was set down – gently but firmly – and the tray moved out of the way. Harry clamored into the hospital chair, ill-gotten picture forgotten in his hand, and commanded a stern, "Up!". The chair, as if sensing that something was going on, moved much quicker than usual.

"Professor?" he called when he reached the hallway. Harry glanced around, then floated the chair into the living room. "Professor Snape!"

Empty. The clock on the wall read a bit after ten in the morning, the summer sun shining brightly through the small window in the kitchen. Harry hovered there for a moment, then headed towards the mysterious hallway Snape continually vanished down. "Professor!"

There were three doors. One was slightly open (a bathroom), the other two firmly shut. Harry settled the chair in the hallway, glancing from one door to the next. One probably led to Snape's bedroom. The other to an unknown location. "Professor Snape?"

No answer. Harry – determined to get answers to the unasked questions floating around in his brain, but not suicidal enough to start knocking on doors – slumped into the hospital chair and crossed his arms. Careful not to crumple the photograph, Harry glared at one door, then at the other.

Waiting for Snape to walk through one.

…

.

…

By the time lunch rolled around, Harry had lost interest in sitting in the hallway, staring at closed, wooden doors. Instead, he'd maneuvered his chair to the kitchen table and was working on writing a note to Hermione.

_Hermione. I know, I know, I shouldn't drink that many potions at one time. I'm sorry. But I'm staying with Snape for the next few weeks and I'm learning all sorts of things. Did you know that the Stone was at Hogwarts because Snape was working on finding -_

Harry's note scribbled to a halt when a white owl fluttered through the door, landing gently on the table beside him. "Hey girl!" Harry greeted, reaching up to brush the soft feathers of her head. Hedwig made a soft sound and returned the favor, tugging at his hair. "I'm really happy to see you."

"Feel up to delivering a letter for me?" Harry asked, digging through his pocket for the note to Ron. "I'll have one for Hermione too, but it's not done yet."

The owl, giving up on Harry's hair, grabbed at the letter. "Ron Weasley, alright?" Harry asked, running his fingers over her feathers one last time. Hedwig bobbed a yes and spread her wings, quickly vanishing back through the window and into the sky.

Harry watched the owl vanish, then turned his attention back to his letter. He desperately needed Hermione's help in figuring out Snape.

…

.

…

Through another window of the castle, a man lurking in the shadows also watched the snowy owl flit into the sky. Raising one cold hand, he reached towards the owl. Hedwig suddenly tumbled from the clouds, came to a stop near the tops of the trees, and then started to float effortlessly towards the castle.

White, drawn fingers reached forwards and grasped at the unconscious owl as she floated in through the window. Carefully, the man took the letter and unfolded it, scanning its contents.

Then read it again, his hands shaking slightly with emotion.

Lips pressed tightly together, the man returned the note to the owl. He held the owl close for a few moments, reveling in her warmth. Then he carefully set her on the windowsill, touched her head, and retreated into the shadows.

Hedwig shook herself as she woke up, twisted her head to look around, and then flung herself back out the window and into the sky. She was little more than a speck on her way to the Weasleys when the man approached the window again. This time, when he stepped into the summer light, there was a dark smile on his face.

…

.

…

_…was friends with my mom, Hermione. He has pictures of her! I can't figure it out._

Harry was on his second revision of the letter, still unable to piece together what he wanted to say in a way that would make sense, when the world suddenly fell apart. There was a rush of noise and a blinding flash of light, horrible pain as his head slammed into the table and then the floor. Somehow, he was no longer seated at the table.

Blackness rushed over his eyes as purple smoke started to billow into the small kitchen. "That's not good," Harry thought.

Then nothing.

…

.

…

Cold fingers were brushing against Harry's forehead. A wet cloth pressed against the side of his face, feeling sticky. Harry felt an oozing warmth near his ear, only partially staunched by the wet rag.

The fingers touched his nose, then lightly trailed to his neck before vanishing. A slight pressure on his chest – someone was pushing down against his feeble attempts to move. The message was clear: don't sit up. The 'someone' was also pretty clear. There weren't many people at the school.

With a horrible groan, Harry let his eyes flicker open. "Prof…" Harry trailed off, startled.

There was nobody there.

The kitchen was much darker than it should be, only a faint red light of a summer sunset shining through the small window. None of the magical lights were working. A purple haze filled the air, billowed near the ceiling like smoke. It burned in Harry's lungs, forcing a hacking cough.

From his sprawled spot on the kitchen floor, Harry could see that Snape's flat was a disaster area. Kitchen supplies were scattered all over the ground, most of the chairs overturned. The living room hadn't fared much better, although without his glasses, things that far away were a blur.

Harry looked around, puzzled and tense at not being able to see the person who'd been caring for him only moments earlier. "Professor?" he coughed out. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to a seated position.

Blinding pain flared in his brain. Harry groaned – more of a stifled scream than anything – and held his head in his hands, carefully avoiding a very tender spot on the side of his head. His stomach churned and Harry had to swallow hard to prevent his breakfast from coming back up.

Slowly the agony faded and Harry got his eyes open again. He peered around the room, not seeing anyone through the haze. "Professor Snape?"

There was a wet cloth sitting next to him. Harry reached for it – slowly, when his head reminded him it had just taken a beating. The cloth was red with blood. Come to think of it, so was a good portion of Harry's hand, the one that had been pressed against the side of his head.

Harry reached up and touched the right side of his head, wincing at the pain, seeing the fresh blood on his fingers. "Oh," he whispered. He stared at the blood for a long moment, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing, before pressing the wet cloth to the side of his face. It stung, but the cold quickly started to pull at the pain.

"Professor?" he called one last time, confused, peering into the haze. His eyes caught on a bit of black on his knee and he reached down, picking up the bent frames of his glasses. One of the lenses was cracked, the other missing completely. Harry ran his fingers over then for a minute, knowing they were mostly useless, before setting them aside.

He couldn't just sit here. He had to do something.

Very slowly, he pulled his way over to the hospital chair he'd been sitting in before the explosion. It was lying on its side, one of the legs looking broken. "Up!" Harry commanded, touching the edge of the chair.

The chair refused to move. Harry ground his teeth (then stopped with a quiet groan of pain), and tried again. "UP!" Still nothing. "Professor!" The shout was followed by a fit of coughing.

"I have to do something," he whispered, letting his body sink back to the ground and rest. His head was pounding. Blood was seeping through the wet cloth on the side of his face. "I need-"

There, on the ground, was the picture Harry had been clutching for so long. The source of all the questions. The reason he'd been in the kitchen in the first place. His mother, smirking at him, waving now and then. Snape, resting against her like they were the best of friends.

He picked it up, intending to put it back in his pocket, but hesitated. The picture had stopped moving. The two people stood still, caught mid-wave, as if it was nothing more than a muggle photo.

Holding it close, Harry rolled onto his back and stared into the haze. "I need…" he tried again, but his brain was refusing to cooperate.

His wand would be helpful, only it was in his trunk – wherever Snape had decided to hide that. The school was empty, except for the two of them. Nothing in Snape's flat seemed to be working correctly.

Letting his eyes fall closed, Harry focused on breathing and keeping pressure on the side of his head. His brain scrambled from getting knocked around too much, unable to think of what to do next, Harry ended up doing nothing.

Outside the window, the sun slowly sank below the horizon. The teacher's tiny apartment plunged into darkness.

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	9. Chapter 8: Locked in a Room

**Doing NaNoWriMo again this year. Hopefully I'm far enough ahead with this story that I'll be able to continue updating each weekend or two despite my focus on writing my original, 50K fic called 'Blackbird'.  
**

**Thank you Anisney-Robin, Shenzuul, MsFrizzle, mithrilandtj, snapemartyr, Gyvir26, y'know, saggyherman, SnapesYukuai, mad on spies, Aerois, 13AkiraKuranXIII, Thatsallwegot, SNHfvy, Zireael07, Anne Campe aka Obi-Quiet, irezel, KoiGirlPGSM, Nefari, BlackRoseDecending, and frodothejedi for the awesome reviews.  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

A tiny, flickering light appeared in the dark haze. It seemed to be a purple color, dancing and sputtering in the middle of the air. Harry gazed at it, confused, watching the fuzzy glow move into the kitchen and slowly head towards the window.

Moonlight shone through the window, illuminating the blurry shape of a tall, dark figure that was holding the flickering light. The person pushed open the window, coughed, and then turned around. "Potter?" The voice belonged to Snape, although it was tense and hoarse from coughing.

Harry pushed himself slowly into a seated position, keeping pressure on the side of his head. "Professor?"

Snape slowly limped his way closer, avoiding the broken things that littered the ground. When he got close enough, he dropped heavily to the ground. A candle – the source of the flickering light – was held up next to Harry's head. "You are injured."

"What happened?"

Harry could hear Snape's mouth turn into a frowning sneer. "Someone threw a handful of pepperwort into the potion I was brewing. It... had a rather explosive effect. Move your hand."

"What?" Harry asked.

"Your hand." Snape reached up and grabbed Harry's wrist, applying just enough pressure to pull the hand and the bloody rag away from Harry's head. "I assumed you were smart enough to know what a hand is."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I meant with the potion." He'd wanted the words to come out in a Snape-like sneer – just a bit evil – but Snape had chosen that moment to prod at the wound. The sharp stab of pain effectively turned the comment into something that sounded like a whine. Harry jerked his head away from Snape's cold fingers. "Ow."

Snape let out a low sound that devolved into a harsh cough. "The potion exploded, Potter. Keep pressure on that cut."

"I didn't do it."

There was a beat of silence as a strange expression flickered across Snape's face. "We need to get you to the hospital wing and let this fog clear. Where are your glasses?"

"Broken," Harry muttered, pointing to where he'd last seen them. "And the chair's not working," Harry explained. The picture in his pocket crinkled. "Neither is-"

"You'll have to help walk," Snape interrupted, wrapping his arm under Harry's arms. The man moved in quick, short bursts. "Come along."

As Snape lifted, Harry pushed with his legs. Together, they managed to lever Harry to his feet. His knees were weak and shaking with the effort to just stand still, and his head spun with the sudden change in elevation. Stomach churning with the effort to keep its contents inside him, Harry asked, "What's the big hurry all the sudden?"

Snape limped towards the door, barely visible through the dense purple murk, dragging a stumbling Harry along. The tiny candle flickered valiantly as it was lugged around. He spared a moment to send a snarky glare in Harry's direction. "In what world would staying in this fog would be a good thing?"

Harry, caught up in the effort of walking towards the door, couldn't reply. It wasn't until Snape had leaned him against a wall so he could reach out and grab the doorknob that Harry took a breath and answered. "If it was such a big deal, why didn't we leave earlier?"

Wrenching at the doorknob, Snape let out a low snarl. The door wasn't moving. "The potion _exploded_, Potter. I had bigger issues to deal with than you." There was a loud _thump_ as Snape kicked the door, followed by an even louder yelp of pain. The man crumpled to the ground, holding his leg and muttering darkly.

Harry, desperate to give his quaking legs a break, took the opportunity to slide to a sitting position next to the candle. He watched his professor shakily lurch himself back to his feet, this time not putting any weight on his right leg. The man's blurry face was white and pale and he was holding onto the doorknob like it was the only thing holding him upright.

The knob was juggled back and forth, pushed and pulled on. "Open, you stupid thing," Snape hissed.

It was very obvious that Snape was furious. Even without his glasses, Harry could see that beneath the paleness, spots of red were appearing on his cheeks. Hs eyes had taken on a flashing, desperate gleam that Harry hadn't seen since his uncle had almost lost a deal with the old Farmwick's Drilling Company. Harry knew perfectly well to sit still, shut up, and stay out of the way when an adult had that look on his face. Ten years of being thrown in cupboards without meals and bathroom breaks had taught him that much, at least.

And yet...

"I think it's locked."

Snape froze. Back straight, arms stiff, he turned to look in Harry's direction.

Harry winced as _the look_ was turned fully on him. Swallowing heavily, Harry turned his gaze to the floor. Barely breathing, heart stuttering to a stop in his chest, Harry waited for the storm to pass.

"The door is not locked." The words came out short and curt. Harry risked a glance upwards to see Snape leaning against the door, face tight and drawn. "It is stuck."

Blinking up into the purple fog, Harry waited for Snape to say more. "How do we unstick it? What spell does that?"

"Just be quiet a few minutes, boy," Snape snarled. "It is impossible to think with your inane chatter in my ears." Snape sank to the ground, carefully rubbing his leg. In the faint glow of the candle, Harry could see blood dampening the man's pants.

Harry sat still, alternating between pressing his hand against the cut on his head and resting his arms in his lap. Holding his hand up in the air for any length of time made his arms shake. As the silence pressed in, broken only by scattered, unintelligible mutterings from Snape, Harry found himself leaning more and more against the wall. The lack of action was almost painful.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Why don't we use magic?"

Snape wrenched a wand out of his robe and flung it at Harry. The boy caught it on instinct, surprise making his breath hitch. "Do," Snape snapped. "Go ahead. _Magic_ us a solution."

"I…" Harry trailed off as Snape turned away, pointedly ignoring him. Harry blinked as Snape's hair dangled forwards, hiding his face, the man going back to quiet whispers. "Um…" He held Snape's wand carefully between his fingers, like it was a snake ready to strike. The wood felt dead against his skin. Harry's wand glowed and hummed with life. There was a horrible sense of _nothingness_ in the other man's wand.

With no better ideas jumping to mind, Harry flicked the wand with a soft, "_Lumos_."

Nothing.

Wrinkling his forehead, Harry flicked the wand harder. "_Lumos!"_

Still nothing.

Harry knew this spell. He'd been able to do this spell since his second lesson in Defense – he'd used it hundreds of times through the school year. And yet… "_Wingardium Leviosa!"_ He tapped the small, flickering candle.

The candle didn't move. It didn't float charmingly into the air like it was supposed to. For all his magical effort, the bit of wax seemed glued to the ground.

Harry twirled the wand quietly between his fingers for a long moment, thinking. The chair didn't move. The picture had frozen. Spells weren't working – although Harry wasn't sure if it was Snape's wand that was broken or not. The magically locked door to Snape's quarters wasn't opening.

It wasn't adding up to anything nice.

"Are you finished yet?" Snape drawled. Harry glanced up to see Snape looking at him with a hand held out.

Quietly, Harry handed the wand back over. "You could've just said something," Harry said softly.

"One would think the bloody hero of the wizarding world would be able to figure this out without being told." Snape grabbed the candle and got to his feet, barely letting his right foot touch the ground. "One would almost think that our young celebrity should have lived up to his reputation and rescued us both by now." There wasn't as much anger in the man's voice as Harry imagined there should have been.

"You realize I was one year old when my parents died, right?"

Snape didn't answer as he limped quietly back into the kitchen, then disappeared down the hallway into the dense, purple fog. Harry watched the little flickering light in surprised dread until it was no longer visible through the darkness.

"And he's leaving me all alone. Again." Harry crossed his arms and slumped as far down against the wall as he could. His head was resting softly against the wall, struggling to keep the deep throbbing at bay. His whole body was aching and starting to tremble. "This bloody bites," he muttered. "I really would rather be at the Dursleys."

At seemed to be just moments later that someone was grabbing Harry's shoulders and shaking him. Harry groaned at the sudden movement, pushing at his attacker. "What?"

"You most likely have a concussion. Don't sleep."

Harry's eyes popped open at Snape's voice. "You're back fast. And I wasn't asleep."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "If you close your eyes again, you'll have detention every day until you take your OWLS." The man set down the candle and collapsed into a sitting position near the door. Harry watched as the man gritted his teeth and rubbed his leg before digging through his pockets for several vials.

"You never said anything before."

"You weren't sleeping before," the man parroted back snarkily. "Now quiet. I'm getting a headache from the sound of your voice."

Harry's eyes narrowed, but he pressed his lips together and just watched. A brilliant green potion was splattered against the door, followed by something darker – perhaps red. A third potion was carefully poured in a line along the bottom of the door, then in a line leading away from the door. Snape scooted backwards as he poured two bottles of something in a rather long line leading all the way to behind the kitchen table.

Harry pushed himself into a better sitting position as Snape tossed the empty vials in a corner. The smashed into tiny pieces as the glass shattered, sharp and loud in the dark quiet. By the time Snape had levered himself to his feet and was limping back towards the door, Harry had pretty much caught on to what was going to happen.

"What are those potions?"

As Snape pulled Harry to his feet and started to help him back to the kitchen, to the relatively safety of behind the overturned kitchen table, the man let out a deep, dark sigh. "You have no sense of self preservation at all, do you?"

Harry couldn't help the soft yelp of pain as his head was jarred when he dropped to the ground behind the table. Little stars danced in his eyes for a moment. When they cleared, he could see Snape peering closely at him. "I'm fine."

The man let out a noncommittal sound and shook his head. "Lay down and cover your head."

Without a second thought, Harry pressed himself to the ground. The floor was cool against his cheek. Harry just got his arms over his head as Snape pulled something out of his pocket and swiped it against the ground. It flared to life in a familiar sizzle – a matchstick. Snape glanced once back at him, nodded, and then set the tiny bit of fire against the potion he'd smeared on the ground.

The potion burst into a beautiful red flame. It glowed and shone and filled the destroyed room in a strange rose-colored light as the flame raced towards the door. In the sudden brilliance, Harry caught sight of just how torn up the apartment was and how much blood was smeared in Snape's robes. It was like a picture, caught in time, just a moment of action as Snape threw himself on top of Harry.

The burning light hit the door.

The explosion that ripped through the apartment made the previous one seem like nothing. There was a huge roar of sound and light, smoke everywhere. The room shook dangerously, tossing Harry and Snape a few feet backwards.

Harry couldn't help the scream of surprise and fear as arms tightened around him, holding him close. Silence fell – horrible silence where Harry couldn't even hear his own heart beating. For a long desperate second, Harry was terrified that his heart had stopped and he was dead.

Then sound returned as a dull ringing noise. The arms around him loosened, the body pushing away. Harry couldn't get his eyes to open. He couldn't get his arms to move from around his head. It was all Harry could do to keep oxygen moving in and out of his lungs in short, sharp gasps.

Something in him had decided enough was enough and had taken over. The something was very much against allowing his body to move again. It didn't seem to matter what Harry did, the something had complete and utter control.

Horribly long seconds passed. Turned to minutes. Turned to a lifetime.

Then a hand settled onto his shoulder. It just sat there, not patting or rubbing, seemingly uncomfortable with being there at all. After a moment, Snape's voice said softly, "Come on, Potter. Let's get to the hospital wing."

Slowly, Harry pushed away the something that was holding him frozen in place. He cracked his eyes open. Dark smoke had billowed through the room, almost completely wiping out the purple haze. Unable to keep his body from trembling, Harry quietly pushed himself back into a seated position, looking around.

The kitchen table they'd been hiding behind had been pushed away by the force of the explosion. Where the door had been… Harry couldn't help his mouth dropping open. The door was completely gone. As was a good section of the wall. "Bloody hell," he whispered, eyes wide. "You did that with _potions_?"

Oddly, a tiny smile flickered over Snape's face. The man lurched to his feet, steadying himself on a broken chair.

"A little overkill, wasn't it? It was just a stuck door…" Harry finally tore his eyes away from the smoldering remains of the door as Snape reached for him to pull him to his feet as well. The room spun as Harry was dragged upwards, his stomach violently disagreeing with the continued abuse to his body.

"There are things going on your little mind can't possibly comprehend," Snape answered sourly. "I do not have the time nor the patience to be stuck in a room with you."

Harry blinked at his professor, then at the door. "Remind me never to try your patience _that _bad," Harry whispered. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

Snape started limping them towards the door, carefully maneuvering them around piles of broken bits of furniture and pieces of the wall. "It pains me to say this, but it was the one thing your father was able to teach me about Potions when I was a student. He had an aptitude for blowing things up in spectacular fashion."

Focused as he was on the simple act of moving, Harry acknowledged the answer with a choked off laugh. His feet were almost refusing to move, more being dragged along the floor than anything else. Each stumbled step was harder than the last, and they were barely out of Snape's little flat. He tried to ask a question, but all that managed to come out was a desperate and tired, "Hospital wing?"

Fortunately, his professor seemed to understand the thought behind the question. "Just a bit further, Potter. You won't have to walk all the way."

Ahead, lights flickered. Everywhere the purple haze touched as it spread through the castle, the lights vanished and the paintings were still. Harry's vision was like a tunnel, only able to see what was right in front of his face. Step after step, dragging himself forwards, only on his feet because Snape was there, holding him up.

Finally they were in the light. Harry's body dropped to the ground, exhausted and unable to move another foot. Pain tingled in every nerve. Breath whispered in and out of his lungs. The floor was cool against his back – almost soothing.

Snape was talking. Harry turned his head slightly, focusing on his professor. "Wha-"

He stopped when it became obvious Snape wasn't talking to him. The man was talking to a short creature with a basketball-shaped head and large ears wearing what looked to be a tea cozy. "-message to Albus Dumbledore immediately."

"Sorry, Master Snape," the creature said, bowing and scraping, "but the castle's cut off. Nobody can leave or enter."

"Impossible," Snape spat. "There are more wards and fail safes on this castle than on Gringotts. Find a way! I need Albus Dumbledore here _now_."

The creature was wringing its hands, looking forlorn and horrible scared. "Master-"

"And help me get Mr. Potter to the hospital wing. He's been injured." Snape turned from the creature, ignoring the pleading looks, and limp-stalked back to Harry's side. "Potter."

Harry watched the creature snap its fingers, several more basketball-headed beings appearing around it. There seemed to be a hurried conversation before the new creatures vanished with pops of sound. "What are those?"

"House Elves." Snape knelt down with a groan of pain. "Move your hand."

Harry's hand had found its way up to the cut again, pressing the rag against his head. Almost dimly, Harry felt his hand being moved and set onto his chest. He ignored the fingers pressing against the side of his head and the muttering that accompanied it. "Why didn't they help us get out of the room?"

"Quiet."

"When's Dumbledore getting here?" The blackness was starting to eat more and more of his vision. It seemed like anything he wasn't focused on was black and empty. Purple haze was creeping closer, the strange ball-headed elf eyeing it nervously.

"Stop-"

Utter silence.

Harry felt his hand move, the rag pulled from his blood-covered hand. It stuck in places where the blood had dried. Harry turned his head slightly, focusing on Snape. The man was beyond pale.

"Where did you get this?" he whispered. Harry had never heard such a broken, empty tone in his professor's voice.

"You gave it to me," Harry muttered. "When I first woke up. Only when I opened my eyes, you weren't there anymore."

A hand grabbed his chin, pulling his head around. Snape's face was inches away, white showing all around the dark irises. "Before or after I opened the window in the kitchen?"

Harry tried to nod, found it too much work, and ended up with a soft, "Before, yeah."

The fingers tightened. "You're sure." The fingers were trembling. Shaking.

"Yeah."

Snape's fingers vanished, the man sitting up and looking away. The rag was clenched tightly between Snape's hands, a long string of profanity tumbling from his mouth.

Harry's eyes focused on the rag, startled to find it a handkerchief. It was green, the color showing in the spots where blood hadn't completely soaked through the thin cloth. Spidery, embroidered letters covered one of the corners in silvery thread. They were initials.

Three letters.

_T.M.R._

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	10. Chapter 9: Back in the Hospital Wing

**Yay, this story is almost completely written. Now it's a lot of revision and posting! :) Not indelibly happy with this chapter, it feels like it's missing something. But I don't know what, and I've been staring at it for two weeks. Handing it off to you, my wonderful readers. I'm sure you'll let me know what it is.  
**

**In other news, WAAAY behind on NaNoWriMo. I woke up this morning at less than 7,000 words. *smirk* Been horribly sick and extremely buxy. Whoever came up with the fourteen hour work day (five days a week) should be drawn and quartered, burned at a stake, and _then_ shot. I am, however, going to do some major writing today and get caught up! 20,000 words in ONE DAY! :D  
**

**...or not. We'll see.  
**

**Thank you to Wilona Riva, Moi, Ritsuka Shin, GOKOA, Aerois, MsFrizzle, LucifersAngel23, ChicagoMyth, BlackRoseDecending, SNHfvr, frodothejedi, Badbonita, Anisney-Robin, mors atra, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, 13AkiraKuranXIII, irezel, Chash23, rowanlyn-mirrim, and Thatsallwegot for the awesome reviews.  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

The hospital wing was dark when Harry pulled himself back into the waking world. His head was pounding with the effort it took to open his eyes.

"Master Potter, Sir?"

The squeaky voice made Harry wince in pain. It seemed to stab right between his ears and deep into his brain. There was a deep groaning sound - perhaps it was him.

"Master Professor Snape needs Master Potter to be drinking this."

Harry turned his head to stare at the diminutive creature standing unhappily beside the hospital bed. It was wearing a white tea-cozy and was wringing its long ear with one hand. The other was holding a black potion.

"Nezzy is very sorry, Master Potter Sir, for waking Master Potter up. But Master Snape is very insistent."

There was another of those groaning noises. This time Harry was more sure it had come from him. He wasn't sure if it had been supposed to be words. So he tried for some actual words. "Mmkay. Just leave it." The words came out slurred and in distinct.

The tiny thing nodded until its head seemed like it would fall from its shoulders. "Yes Sir, Master Potter Sir. You be needing anything, you be calling for Nezzy."

Harry made a sound that could have been a yes, but the creature seemed to speak 'Hospital Wing'. It set the potion beside the bed and vanished with a sharp 'pop'. Harp winced at the noise and closed his eyes.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, jerking Harry back to life. "Wha?" His eyes peeled open to stare into the dark, shadowed eyes of his most hated potions professor.

"I sent this potion to be drunk, not slept with." The man's sneer-filled voice drilled into Harry's brain.

"I was gonna," Harry protested, carefully pushing himself into a seated position. His head spun; his stomach rebelled. Sharp flares of pain shrieked through his spine. The fingers grasping his shoulder tightened and Harry added a quick, "Sir."

Snape's mouth vanished into a thin line. One hand firmly on Harry's shoulder, the other picked up the dark vial of liquid and pulled out the cork with a quick twist of his fingers. "Open." Harry barely had time to get his mouth open before Snape was pressing the cold glass against his lips and tipping the contents inside.

Mud. Harry could _swear_ Snape was feeding him mud.

It took only a heartbeat for the pain to start to fade. By the time Snape set the vial back on the table, Harry's mind had cleared and the pain was just a distant thrum in the back of his head. The "wow" escaped Harry's lips before he could stop it.

Snape arched an eyebrow. A pleased gleam lurked in the corner of Snape's dark eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. "Repeat what you told me earlier."

Harry – still busy probing in the inside of his mind for the pain that had been throbbing there only moments earlier – didn't really hear the question. "What?"

The snarl that came from the older wizard's throat brought Harry back to reality. He focused on Snape as the man hissed out, "_Repeat_, if Your Highness would be so kind, what you told me earlier."

Harry knew his words were going to send his professor deeper into a spiral of anger, but there didn't seem to be any way around it. "What am I supposed to be repeating? Sir?" The honorific was added as an attempt to stop the fury before it got going.

Snape's mouth – which was already thinned to nonexistence – pressed together in wrinkly little lines. A noisy breath in through his nose, then out through his mouth, then in again before he opened his mouth to respond. "The handkerchief you were given. Tell me about it again."

Swallowing the instinctive, "Why?", Harry nodded and shrugged. "You were holding it against my head, to stop the blood, I guess."

Those dark, expressionless eyes narrowed, just a touch. "What made you sure it was me?"

"Who else could it have been?" Harry reached up to scratch an itch on the side of his head, accidentally brushed against the sore spot, and winced. "One of those creatures?"

"House elves," Snape corrected darkly. "And it was not, I asked. Did you ever see me?"

Harry let his hand fall back into his lap, trying to ignore the itch. As per usual, this made his itch that much worse. "Um…" He thought back. "No? But nobody else was there."

Snape settled down on the bed next to Harry and let out a slow, low breath. His fingers steepled and he pressed his fingers to his nose. Long minutes passed of silence.

The itch on the side of Harry's head grew steadily worse, but judging from the look on Snape's face – and the fact that the man was actually sitting on his hospital bed – Harry figured it wasn't worth trying to scratch it again. When the man finally spoke, it came out slowly and with the sound of someone admitting to a horrible crime. "I do not have any memory of bringing you that handkerchief."

"So it wasn't you?" Harry took the opportunity to bring his hand up and attempt to scratch the itch. It hurt. Harry flinched away, but brought his hand back, determined to get to the itch.

Snape let out a snort. "That is what I am trying to ascertain. Have you been listening? Why would I be… Stop that, you annoying child." Snape grabbed Harry's hand and pulled it away from his head. "You're not helping it heal by picking at it."

"It itches." Harry hadn't meant his words to be a whine.

"So you think that if one scar brought you this much fame, perhaps a second would bring you even more?" Snape shook his head and let go of Harry's hand just long enough to grab a small container out of a pocket. He untwisted the top, smeared some of the greenish gunk of his finger, and then rubbed it against the side of Harry's head. The man's touch was surprisingly gentle despite the rough anger in his voice. "I'm sorry to inform you that falling from a chair and hitting your head on the side of a table will not bring you the same level of fame as destroying a dark lord does."

The caustic smell of the salve caused Harry's nose to wrinkle and the inside of his nostrils to burn. "What's in that?"

"Blood beetle dung," Snape said softly, wiping his fingers on a small rag and secreting the container back into one of his many pockets. "Like the smell?"

"No."

"Few people do." Snape eyed Harry darkly. "Do you think you can deign you sit still now?"

Harry sneezed and nodded, barely noticing that the itchiness of the healing skin had vanished completely. He wrinkled his nose a few times, then swiped at a bit of liquid that was seeping out. After he had wiped his hand on his robe, he glanced up at Snape – who was staring at him like Harry was some sort of disgusting, oozing specimen. "What was the question again?" Harry asked, desperate to derail the comments he knew were brewing on the potion master's tongue.

"I require you to think, if that's not too much to ask, about the past several weeks. Have there been any strange encounters?"

"Strange?" Harry sniffled.

"Unusual. Different. Unexplained. Perhaps meetings where you can't remember who was there with you."

Harry looked up at Snape. "You think there's someone else in the castle? Besides us and those things?"

"House elves. Please answer the question."

"But it's not anybody bad, right? Because if it were someone else, they-"

Snape's hand slammed into the bedside table, causing an explosion of noise that made Harry jump and flinch. The man's eyes bored into Harry's. "Answer. The. Question."

Harry's eyes flickered between the hand and Snape's face. He licked his lips and scooted backwards a tiny bit, before looking down at his hands. "Uh…" he started, stalling for time. "I don't think so. I mean, there's been times when I thought there was someone in the room, but I didn't see anyone, but they were probably just you – right? Or a-" he cut off what he was going to say, filling in a hesitant, "elf?"

"Describe these times," Snape said. Some of the anger had vanished from the man's voice. When Harry glanced up at him, he saw that Snape's hand had retreated to his leg and was holding white-knuckled tight to his thigh.

"But-" Harry stopped when he saw a dark glimmer enter Snape's eyes. "Um, there were a few times when I was sick and I thought someone was in the room, but there wasn't. Like, someone was watching me sleep. And I thought once that someone had touched my scar-"

"Your scar?" Snape interrupted. "Just the once?"

Harry chewed on his tongue a moment. "Maybe. I don't remember."

Harry sat in silence as Snape stormed to his feet and stalked over to the window. His fingers were clasped behind his back, white against his back robes, which were dark against the white stone of the hospital wing's walls. "Any other encounters?"

"I don't know," Harry said softly, watching the tightness in Snape's arms and hands. "Maybe. But I don't understand-"

Snape twirled. Harry had barely gotten through the instinctive flinch before Snape had strode past his bed and was on his way towards the door. It slammed open, then shut with a loud _bang_.

Harry was left sitting in bed, staring at the door, completely lost as to what to think.

...

.

...

By the time the creepy little creature Snape insisted was called a house elf reappeared with lunch, Harry had made a few decisions. One – Snape was obviously unhappy that someone else was in the castle. This probably meant the person wasn't a good person. Two – this person's initials were TMR, whoever that might be. Three - that Snape obviously didn't care much for Harry's continued existence if that was the case, as he'd left Harry alone, unguarded, without a wand to protect himself, in a hospital wing when he could barely walk on his own. And four – that white would never ever feature as a paint color in any house he ever owned. Ever.

"Is Master Potter hunger, sir? Nezzy brings Master Potter lunch."

Harry smiled at the little creature, happy for a distraction from the thoughts running through his head. He took the tray from the tiny thing, forcing down a shudder at the overly hot feel of its hands. "Thanks, Nezzy."

Nearly dropping the tray, Harry watched with wide eyes as the creature went into hysterics at the two words. It collapsed to the floor, tears running down its baseball-shaped head, pulling hard on its ears. "Master Potter sir is too kind to Nezzy. Master Potter doesn't need to be thanking poor Nezzy, Nezzy doesn't deserve it. Nezzy hasn't done anything to be needing thanking for, not from Master Potter."

"Uh, okay…" Harry said, hoping to distract the thing before its tinny voice gave him a headache. "Say, Nezzy, can I ask you a question?"

The creature looked up from the floor, eyes wide and shining. "Anything Master Potter needs!"

"Who's the person Snape is looking for?"

"Master Snape doesn't say who he's looking for, just that Nezzy needs to find him." The creature got to its feet, wringing its hands. "But there's no one else in the castle for Nezzy to find!"

Harry chewed the inside of his lip as he thought that through. "And nobody can get to the castle? It's blocked somehow?"

The thing nodded, its long ears flopping wildly. "The wards, Master Potter sir. Someone's damaged the wards and nobody can get in or out."

"Who could have done that? Break the wards?"

Harry was talking mostly tot himself, but the tiny house elf decided to answer the question. "Only a powerful wizard, Master Potter. Master Dumbledore could."

"Could Snape?"

The little creature froze, staring up at Harry with a horrible look in its eyes. Tears welled up slowly, the tiny thing's face slowly turning a freaky shade of red. Harry stared at it, starting to wonder if it was going to explode or something, when the creature burst out a loud, "Nezzy doesn't know! Nezzy is so sorry, Master Potter sir, but Nezzy doesn't know much about magic things that master wizards do." The thing started to cry again, strange keening noises that drilled between Harry's ears and slammed into his brain.

"Um, it's okay, Nezzy," Harry said quickly. "I didn't really expect…" he trailed off, not wanting to insult the little creature. "Thanks for bringing me lunch and talking to me and all." He smiled.

Harry's attempt to be nice backfired. The creature burst into even louder tears before vanishing in a sharp pop of air. The silence that descended over the hospital wing rang.

Reveling in the quiet, Harry picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It tasted like all of Hogwarts' food – that faint tang of magic on the back of his tongue. Harry swallowed and licked his lips, smiling a little at the simple pleasure of good food on an empty stomach.

His smile slowly vanished as his thoughts went back to the strange intruder. Chewing his way through the sandwich and chips, Harry let his gaze rove around the expansive hospital wing. Snape hadn't bothered to set up the privacy curtains like Madam Pomfrey always did, allowing Harry an unblocked view of the room. His eyes trailed over the cabinets full of potions and medicines and bandages, across the shelves with their neatly-lined-up vials of many different colors, and to the door that lead to Madam Pomfrey's office. Even the door was whitewashed. Everything gleaned of cleanliness, disinfectant, and magical spells.

His eyes skipped over the beds, went past the open door to the hallway, and towards the doors that lead to a few small washrooms. Then his head stopped, his gaze jumping back to the door.

It was open. Hadn't Snape closed it?

Harry slowly set down the remains of his sandwich, a horrible feeling bubbling up inside his chest. He _knew_ Snape closed that door. He'd closed it rather firmly and finally.

That was when someone touched the side of his head - the hurt side - very gently.

Cold fingers.

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	11. Chapter 10: Evil Gets a Name

**Well. My original estimation that this would be a 15 chapter story just got shot in the foot. I just finished writing chapter 18 and I'm nowhere near done wrapping up all the errant story lines. *sigh* I'm now thinking more along the lines of 25 chapters. On the positive side, I currently have chapters written to be posted through the middle of January. :) Rough drafts, in need of editing, but the worst of it is done. Expect weekly updates.  
**

**Thank you to SnapesYukuai, Nefari, mithrilandth, snapemartyr, The Dark Lady55, Guest, Sydney-Jo, risi, Wilona Riva, EmilyF.6, 13AkiraKuranXIII, saggyherman, gryphenvoid, JulieSnape02, BlackRoseDecending, Chash123, Anisney-Robin, frodothejedi, Anne Campe aka Obi-quiet, MsFrizzle, ELoveless, Bonomania, Christine Jay, meiscof, Ritsuka Shin, TwistedlySweetFiction, Moi, Zireael07, beansontoast, Thatsallwegot, irezel, and hazeldragon for the awesome reviews.  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

Harry held perfectly still as the fingers touching the side of his face trailed to the scar on his forehead and lightly traced over the raised skin. Almost against his will, his eyes moved up to try to see the hand, then over to find the person it was attached to.

White skin. Impossibly pale. It was so white it almost seemed to shimmer and glitter in the sunlight. The fingers were long and skinny and bony with seemingly no fat on them.

Someone breathed against the back of his neck. There was the feel of a body behind him – cold and horrible rather than warm and solid like a normal person. Something brushed against the hair on his head.

Harry couldn't get enough air in his lungs to force words from his mouth, so he just slowly turned his head to look in the direction of the arm. His view of the white skin wavered, almost like he was trying to open his eyes underwater. Something wet pressed against the side of his head. There was a horrible burning sensation where he'd hit his head.

Then the arm was gone. Vanished.

Harry flipped around, eyes wide, heart pounding in his chest. There was nobody there. His whole body shaking, Harry's head jerked back around to glance around the entire hospital wing. Nobody. It was empty. He twisted onto his stomach and leaned over to peer under the bed.

_Bang_.

Harry jolted back upright, staring at the hospital wing door. It was shut again. Pictures on the walls were still trembling at the force of the door slamming itself shut.

The hospital wing was empty.

Struggling to keep air moving in and out of his lungs, Harry leaned back against the pillows. The room was spinning. Hand trembling uncontrollably, Harry reached up to carefully touch the wet _something_ still pressed against the side of his face. It oozed under his fingers, sticky and gooey.

Harry pulled his hand away and stared at it. It was a greenish goo, just like the stuff Snape has smeared on him earlier. He brought it to his nose, sniffing. The gut-wrenching smell of the blood beetle wasn't there. "Huh," he whispered. "I wonder what…"

He trailed off, staring at his hand. Painful looking welts were appearing on his hand, the largest ones bursting open and starting to ooze green pus. Harry's mouth hung open for a long moment, transfixed by the transformation on his hand.

Then the pain hit. His eyes scrunched together as waves of agony speared from his hand and the side of his face. He was distantly aware of screaming.

Perhaps it was his. He hurt too much to care.

...

.

...

The dark man watched as Snape placed Harry on a cot in one of the old classrooms. "Guard him," Snape snapped at the two ghosts that had followed him into the room. "Tell me the second he wakes up." There must have been some sort of response, as the potions master twirled on his heel and stalked out of the room.

The ghosts quickly because disenchanted with the living creature lying comatose on the bed. A game of chess was soon set up and they seemed to be paying no attention to the child. The dark man let a small smile cross his face.

With slow steps, the dark figure moved through the shadows up to the cot, standing beside the young boy. One of the boy's hands was tightly bandaged, along with half his face. No doubt a result of the salve the man had dumped on him.

Cautiously, the figure reached out and touched the boy's forehead, tracing his finger over the scar. The one he'd first seen not even a month previously. The mystery.

A smile appeared on the shadow's face. His plan was unfolding perfectly. As long as the child and the spy continued to behave like they should.

He just had a mystery to solve first. His finger against traced over the boy's forehead, this time with sizzles of pain shooting up his arm. It was just a matter of time.

And now, here, with his 'modifications' to the castle's wards, he had nothing but time.

...

.

...

The next time Harry woke up, it was to an odd floating, constricted feeling. Almost like he was dangling in the air, wrapped tightly in a blanket. Slowly, carefully, he pried his eyes open.

He recognized the ceiling immediately. He'd spent enough time tracing the patterns of the cracks in the stonework. It looked remarkably like a goblin army sneaking up a group of evil-looking trolls. Not surprising, given what was taught under this ceiling.

The instant recognition might have also had something to do with the droning sound of a voice in the background. "-two hundred years before the Goblin Accords of 1614 were actually signed by the Wizengamot. Until then, a number of skirmishes rolled through the countryside. One of the more notable was the Oxford Rebellion of 1583, where a small coven of witches attempted to con a goblin lord out of several lifetime's worth of gold-"

Harry let his head roll to the side. A ghostly professor was standing in the front of the room, deep into a lecture on some goblin war, completely unaware of the fact that it was summer vacation. Harry took a moment to try to figure out which war ended in 1614, but quickly gave up when his head twinged.

He picked up a hand and pressed it to his forehead. Only his fingers wouldn't spread apart. Harry peered at his hand, wrapped in thick bandages, and very slowly pushed himself into a sitting position.

A cot. In the History of Magic classroom. A light blanket over him, the floating feeling no doubt coming from some form of medication. Bandages firmly wrapped around his right hand and – after a quick check – a good portion of his face as well. Everywhere the green goo had been.

Memory of the white hand flooded back into his brain and Harry's breath hitched and skipped. His eyes widened and he jerked his head around, staring.

There were two other ghosts in the room. One was the Bloody Baron, the other Nearly-Headless Nick. They had been playing some strange version of chess, but now both were staring in his direction. "He awakens," the Baron intoned darkly. "I shall fetch Professor Snape."

"Binns and I…" Nearly-Headless Nick trailed off with a glance towards the still-lecturing ghostly professor. "I will stay here and guard the boy."

The Baron didn't seem to care about Nick's answer, having already drifted halfway across the classroom. The ghost vanished through a wall without a sound.

Harry licked his lips and asked, "What's going on?"

"That is a preeminently good question," the ghost answered softly. The ghost's eyes narrowed as it studied Harry. "You are safe here, for now. You may relax, child."

Harry waited for an answer to his question, but finally decided one wasn't going to be coming. He huffed out a breath and forced himself to relax back on the cot. The wall was perfectly positioned for a backrest.

"-attempted to burn two purported witches at the stake based on rumors started by the goblin lord. This sparked a new set of conflicts between the goblins of the area and several of the local covens. One of these conflicts resulted in the creation of a new curse, known by the common name of the 'torture curse." It is, of course, considered an unforgivable curse due to the nasty and long-term effects on humans. The witch who invented it reportedly died advocating against the use of her creation – it was supposed to be for the goblins who, by all the information we can obtain – feel little more than a tickle-"

The steady drone of the professor and the delightful, floating feeling of the medication lulled Harry into a state of almost-sleep. His eyes trailed away from the ghosts to stare out the classroom's window.

Purple haze drifted and billowed like smoke just beyond the window. It was almost thick enough to block the view of the Forbidden Forest.

It wasn't more than a few minutes before Snape stalked into the room, his black cloak billowing behind him like wings. He stopped just before Harry's cot and stared at him. "Explain." The man's voice came out chipped and frozen.

Harry blinked up at the man, opened his mouth to speak, but apparently wasn't moving fast enough. "I-"

"You are _aware_ that you're allergic to pallid grass. Why did you smear a while _container_ of it on the side of your face?"

"I di-"

"Do you have a death wish? Do you like being waited on hand and foot so much that you decided to risk death – _a second time _– to continue the service? Or was the itch just getting too much for you?"

Harry snapped his mouth shut and decided to wait out the wrath of his potions professor rather than attempt to interrupt.

"I do not enjoy saving your life, child, despite what you might think. If I wouldn't have to face Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall in the Fall, I would have let you die from your continued idiocy. It would have been a fitting end to the stupidity and arrogance bred into the Potter line. Death by allergic reaction."

Snape's hands were hidden inside the sleeves of his robes. He was standing tall, his body tense and almost shaking.

"I have many other things to do besides treat you as a young child. If you haven't noticed, there are things happening around the castle I should be attending to, not standing here _repeatedly_ dealing with your complete lack of regard for others."

The tirade broke for a moment. Snape took the time to breathe and regain his momentum, and Harry took the opportunity to sneak in a quick, "I didn't do it."

Snape glared. "Then who did?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Harry shot back. "Same guy who gave me the handkerchief, probably."

Snape was holding perfectly still. He wasn't even blinking.

"Didn't think of that, did you?" came a ghostly, wavering voice.

Snape spun on his heel and pointed his wand towards the nearly-beheaded ghost. A whisper of a spell, a swell of magic, and all the ghosts in the room vanished with swirls of red light and soft, ghostly complaints. Snape let his arm fall to his side, wand lose in his hand. "Explain what happened."

Harry stared at his professor silently for a long moment, strange feelings curling around in his stomach. "No," he whispered.

"What?" Snape twisted around to glare at Harry.

"No." Harry lifted his chin slightly, squaring his shoulders. "I'm sick of you jumping to conclusions and then me having to 'explain myself' when I haven't done anything wrong."

Snape's eyes flashed. "You are a _child_. You don't-"

"I'm the only other human, the only other wizard, in this castle!" Harry cut in. His voice was trembling slightly, but anger was carrying him through.

"You are a child and in training," Snape said darkly. His wand was gone again with a flick of a wrist, his arms crossing over his chest. "Someday, should you survive long enough, you might be called a wizard. If the world is nice enough, I will not live to see the day."

Harry crossed his arms too – an unconscious mimic of the potions professor. "There's something going on. I'd _help_ if you'd let me!"

"You are very ill. You are a child," Snape ticked the points off on his fingers as he talked. "You are untrained. You don't know what you're up against-"

"Neither do you," Harry interjected.

Snape was silent. Very slowly, the man uncrossed his arms. The stony expression never changed, but a tiny bit of the ice in his eyes thawed slightly. "Why must you never follow the simplest of directions?" the man asked, but a lot of the drive was gone from his voice.

"I follow directions that make sense," Harry answered, letting his shoulders relax but leaving his arms crossed. "I'm not…" he hesitated, then pressed on. "I'm not a little kid. I can help."

"You are eleven-"

"Almost twelve, and I've defeated Voldemort twice!"

Snape shuddered and looked out the window, seeming to study the purple haze staining the outside air. "You have the same detestable attitude as your father."

Harry clenched his jaw. His eyes narrowed.

"However…" Snape's eyes went back to Harry's. "Perhaps you have a point."

Surprise made Harry's eyes widen. "What?"

"Do not make me repeat myself," Snape snapped, but the worst of the anger was gone from his voice. It was more of the bored drawl from class.

"Yeah, okay. Sir."

Snape's eyes narrowed slightly, then – to Harry's pure astonishment – Snape rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay," Snape muttered softly. He beckoned with his hand to a chair, which hurried across the floor and settled next to Harry's cot. Snape lowered himself into the chair and steepled his fingers. "Are we past the childish bickering now?"

With a shrug, Harry looked down at his hand and started to pick at the bandage. Several mutinous comments about Snape being the one who _started_ the 'childish bickering' flooded through his mind, but Harry managed to swallow them all. Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Some of it," Snape said. Harry looked up, eyes narrowing and mouth opening to protest, but Snape's hand was up in a forestalling gesture. "Some of it you will not understand nor will benefit from knowing. I will inform you of the relevant information _if_," Snape paused to accent the word, "you explain to me what happened the hospital wing."

Harry sat a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before sighing and letting go of the argument. Some information was better than none, after all. "I was sitting in the hospital wing and the door opened-"

"Who opened it?"

"Nobody," Harry said, biting back a bit of irritation at being interrupted. "It was just open. I couldn't see anybody around. Then I felt cold fingers on my head and it felt like someone was sitting behind me-"

Snape sat forwards in the chair, eyes alert. "Describe the fingers."

Harry blinked at him. "White, thin, bony."

"How white?" Snape held out his hand for Harry to see. "More like mine or yours?"

Harry shook his head. "Not like skin. White – like paper, or the walls of the hospital wing. And the hand almost looked wet."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "What happened then?"

"I turned around to see who was there," Harry demonstrated, twisting around to see behind him, "and that's when they smeared this goo on my face. There wasn't anybody there when I turned around. And there wasn't anybody in the room. Then the door banged shut. And… that's kind of it. I never saw anyone."

Snape settled back in his chair, closing his eyes, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose, and leaning his head forwards so his hair cascaded over his face. The classroom was quiet for a few moments as the man sat there, obviously thinking something through.

"Professor?" Harry spoke quietly. The older wizard seemed to be in something of a good mood, Harry didn't want to ruin it before he got the information Snape had promised.

Opening his eyes, Snape gazed silently at Harry.

It was the question that Harry hoped would get him the most information. "Who is T.M.R.?"

Snape continued to gaze quietly at Harry. Just at the point where Harry was going to ask a new question, Snape murmured, "A person you've met a few times. Twice, I believe you were just informing me."

Harry tipped his head to the side, trying to think that one through. "Who?"

With something that sounded like a sigh, Snape leaned forwards and put his elbows on his knees. "Listen closely, Potter, I will only explain this once. When you defeated the Dark Lord ten years ago, you left him as a spirit. Unable to live, unable to die. A few months ago, that spirit worked its way inside of Professor Quirrell. You – despite all odds to the contrary – managed to evict that spirit out of Quirrell. A bodiless soul, wandering the world."

Harry's mouth dropped open, his mind working ahead of Snape's dour voice. "So where is Voldemort now?"

"You will call him the Dark Lord in my presence. Or the silly 'You-Know-Who'."

"Why?" Harry's nose wrinkled. "He's evil."

"Yes, he is." Snape shook his head, his eyes looking like they weren't focusing on anything in the room, instead watching a memory. "But he's a very, very powerful force that deserves a modicum of respect for what he has accomplished – for better or worse."

Harry shook his head, opening his mouth to argue, but Snape held his hand up and stopped the words from bubbling over. The professor said, "We are getting off topic. You will give me this small thing, or our conversation is over."

Harry's eyes narrowed a bit, but then simply nodded and looked away. "Fine. So where is the _Dark Lord_ now?"

"The headmaster was informed that the Dark Lord had fled to Romania. The castle and grounds were thoroughly searched after your conflict over the Stone and the Dark Lord was gone. It was assumed he would not return without some sort of an advantage. It appears that assumption was incorrect."

"You're saying he's here." Harry felt cold claws dig into his stomach. "At Hogwarts."

Snape's mouth tightened. "I would like to think otherwise, but the evidence is starting to point to that as a logical conclusion. He is trapped as a bodiless spirit." He tapped his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "It also appears more and more that he had Professor Quirrell set up certain _things_ before your encounter in the third floor corridor."

Harry had gooseflesh running up and down his arms, his mind still swirling around the idea that Voldemort – that evil man – might be around. Might have been touching him. "What kind of things?" He heard his voice asking, but a large part of his mind was screaming to not know the answer.

"It _appears_ that the damage to the wards around the school was set up several months ago, perhaps a spell on a trigger. The school being practically empty, I find hard to believe as a coincidence. The perfect ingredient to destroy the potion I was working to create…" Snape trailed off to stare out the window. "And many other things. It is just too _set_ to be a coincidence. I think we're trapped in a well-thought-out plan."

"What do you think he's after?" Harry's voice was very quiet.

Snape turned dark eyes towards Harry. "What else? The Sorcerer's Stone. And you."

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	12. Chapter 11: Knowing When to Run

**She wins NaNoWriMo, at the last minute. :) 50,001 words written of my original story 'Blackbird'. And, of course, I wrote 55,565 words of THIS story at the same time, since I couldn't leave well enough alone.  
**

**In positive news, I am now far enough ahead with the story to put up a chapter a week through March of 2013. :) **

**In slightly negative news, this story is getting out of control. Every time I attempt to wrap up the story, a plot line keeps wigging along and creating more story. My pretty, fifteen chapter mini-story is _currently_ sitting at 23 chapters and not done yet. The story is ultimately the boss. Its characters control me completely. When they are finished talking, I will be finished writing. Until then, they are demanding the story continue far beyond what I had originally wanted.  
**

**Thank you to Wilona Riva, MsFrizzle, Chash123, saggyherman, at home sick, Zireael07, helen carter, BlackRoseDecending, Hobesan, IceDragon19, COKOA, Sydney-Jo, Anne Camp aka Obi-Quiet, Thatsallwegot, JulieSnape02, SnapesYukuai, snapemartyr, and frodothejedi for the awesome reviews.  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

Harry was absolutely silent, not paying any attention to the man pacing in front of his cot. Fear was holding him in place. The kind that trailed down his back, made his palms break out into a horrible sweat, and his eyes blink again and again and again. It was almost paralyzing, the amount of panic that was suddenly worming its way into his body.

Never before had Harry been the deliberate, planned, and _informed_ subject of an evil lord's machinations. Very suddenly, he was feeling every moment of his not-quiet-twelve years of age. A short nine months of basic spell knowledge floated around in his brain and Harry found himself unable to think of even a simple defensive spell.

Snape was still talking – to himself, mostly – but Harry wasn't listening anymore. He'd heard more than enough. He'd survived two attempts on his life by shear dumb luck, and he knew it. The third time was unlikely to be the same.

Something floated in front of him. Harry's year of intense Seeker training by Oliver Wood made his hand move, reach out, and grab it without Harry's conscious mind needing to do any work. It was the warmth in his hand got his attention.

His wand.

Harry focused on Snape, noticing that the man was gazing at him with a blank expression on his face. The professor was quiet, just staring. Then he nodded, as if making some sort of decision. "Potter."

Harry continued to stare at the only other human being in the castle. The only person capable of getting _into_ the castle to help him. The person who he'd have to rely on to survive this latest twist in his rather short existence.

This wasn't some adventure. This wasn't just some puzzle to solve. This wasn't some game to save a rock from a potions professor nobody believed wou_ld __really_ hurt them. There was an actual, real risk of not surviving this.

A bodiless Dark Lord was in the castle, hunting him down. Wanting to hurt him. Wanting to kill him. Harry felt his body begin to shudder.

Snape crouched down in front of him, so their eyes were on the same level. "Potter."

Harry blinked a few times, holding his wand tightly against his chest. His hand was trembling furiously. Actually, his whole body was probably trembling.

Snape closed his eyes a moment and let out a low breath. Then the man settled down on the bed next to Harry and grabbed one of his hands. Cold, Snape-like hands uncurled Harry's fingers from a fist and started to push and press on parts of Harry's palm.

Almost like magic, Harry felt the worst of the panic start to drain away. He turned his head to stare at his potion's professor. "What?" Harry whispered.

"You are eleven." Snape moved his probing fingers up a bit further, rolling Harry's wrist around. By this point, Harry had allowed his hand to go limp. "You're untrained. You have a mere pittance of the knowledge even a hedge witch has, much less what you need to take on a Dark Lord."

"You're not helping," Harry breathed.

Snape's mouth quirked up into a brief smile. It left Harry stunned - he wasn't aware that Snape had the ability to smile, even for a moment. "I'm not _expecting_ you to go up against him. I'm not expecting myself to go up against him – I'm well aware of the result. We would both die, me not much after you. My plan is that neither of us ever see him again."

Harry felt his shoulders relax a bit as Snape started to press on his forearm. He wasn't sure if it was the constant pressure on his arm or the fact that there was now a plan of action that _didn't _involve him going up against Lord Voldemort again. "How?"

"He will be going after the Stone. He's going to want that much more than you or I. That will buy us time to remove ourselves from the situation."

"We're going to rescue the Stone?"

Snape snorted derisively. "The Dark Lord can have the thing."

"But he'll be alive again!" Harry sat upright, pulling his arm out of Snape's grasp.

"And so will we." Snape gazed darkly at him. "It's a choice to be made."

"How about we go get the Stone and take it with us? Leave behind a… decoy? A fake Stone?"

"The Dark Lord doesn't currently have a body; the Stone won't do him much good anyways."

Harry's jaw clenched tightly. "He's evil. We shouldn't let him have anything."

Apparently, Harry had worn through what little patience Snape had managed to work up. His voice was icy when he spoke. "I don't have the time nor patience to argue this with you. You are a child and will listen to directions. We are _not_ risking our lives to save a bauble – Dark Lord wanting it or otherwise."

"Once he gets it, he's going to go after a body." Harry looked away, working to get his jaw unlocked, to try to drain away some of the anger that had developed when Snape had so easily and unconcernedly brushed away all of his thoughts.

"A problem to solve when it happens."

"He'll come after one of us."

Snape was silent a moment, glaring at Harry. "You have your mother's blood protection," he said. "The Dark Lord will be unable to possess you like he did Professor Quirrell." He got to his feet and brushed his robes to straighten them.

Harry was able to read between the lines on _that_ statement, turning to stare at his potions professor in absolute horror. "He'll come after _you_." His mouth worked quietly, unable to think of what to say to that.

"Possessing someone who does not wish to be possessed is not an easy task," Snape said, his words clipped. "Now, we must be on the move. Are you able to stand?"

"But he was able to touch me. The blood protection isn't working!" Harry felt his eyes getting wide again, his heart starting to jump into his chest.

Snape snarled and closed his eyes. "Potter. Blood protections and wards work mostly on _intent_, not on a name. Your blood protection will work just fine when the Dark Lord wishes you harm. On your feet. Now." Snape grabbed Harry's arms and pulled him into a standing position.

Harry teetered back and forth, feeling his knees wobble as weight was put on them for the first time in a long while. "I don't think I can get far. Can't we find another of those chairs?"

"No," Snape snarled. He quickly maneuvered himself so he was standing beside Harry, mostly holding him up. "You will walk."

"But-" Harry glanced towards the door – towards where the Dark Lord was waiting, ready to come back to life and kill him.

Snape growled low in his throat and grabbed Harry's free hand, the one holding Harry's wand. He picked the hand up and held it out. "Repeat after me, Potter." He swept his hand in a downwards arc. "_Protego!_" A flicker of a shield appeared.

Harry felt Snape let go and licked his lips. He waved his hand. "_Protego_." Nothing.

"This is a shield spell, Potter. _Extremely _basic. I can't believe a first year can't even do a simple protection spell. Now, do it again, and do it correctly."

Snape's snarky voice dug into a part of Harry's brain that was running in circles in fear. "_Protego!"_ Harry snapped as he drew his wand through the air. Magic prickled the skin of his arm and coalesced in the air as a shimmering shield.

Harry stared at his creation, the fear receding slightly. He found his legs a bit more sturdy, the weight of panic a little less pressing. He now had a chance of protecting himself. He glanced over at Snape.

The man's eyes were blank. But Harry could see something in them – the faint knowledge that no spell either of them knew would save them if the Dark Lord were waiting outside that door. It was nothing more than a weak illusion of safety.

"Better." Snape muttered. "Now _walk_."

With Snape taking a good portion of his weight, Harry managed to wobbled towards the door of the classroom. His wand was tight in his sweaty hand. They paused beside the heavy wooden door.

Harry could feel Snape tense as he reached for the door and pulled on the knob. The door creaked open. Together, they moved out into the hallway.

Towards purple, magic-eating haze.

Towards a warded barrier they wouldn't be able to cross.

And towards an invisible, unkillable Dark Lord in search of immortality and a new body.

...

.

...

"Can you not walk a bit straighter?" Snape hissed.

"Sorry," Harry answered softly, wincing as his foot stepped on Snape's shoe for the fifth time since they'd turned the corner into this corridor. The stairs leading down the main corridor were only fifty feet away. "I'm trying."

The sound Snape made didn't sound entirely convinced, but he didn't reply. They just kept walking – Harry more being dragged than walking.

The paintings in this corridor were strangely empty. Harry had never walked down a hallway in such silence before. In the middle of the night, the portraits were snoring. Through the day, they were chatting and calling out 'helpful' bits of advice. He glanced from one to the next, worrying over the empty scenes. "The paintings…"

"I noticed. Keep walking." Snape's voice was short and sour.

The suits of armor were shadowed and tall, their swords looking sharp in the emptiness. Footsteps echoed before them and behind them, giving the illusion that the two of them were being followed. Harry kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see white, dead hands appearing out of nowhere to reach for him. The people-shaped suits of armor were not helping – every time Harry caught one in the corner of his eye, he flinched.

A sudden bout of swearing caught Harry off guard. He stopped, turned from where he'd been peering, and stared at the staircase.

Purple haze was surrounding the magical stairs, freezing them in place. The stairs had been in a period of movement when the smoke had descended, leaving them frozen in unusable positions in mid air. Unfortunately, that meant that Harry and Snape had no steps to take.

Snape set Harry down on the ground, then paced back and forth at the edge of where the staircase _should_ have been. The purple smoke hovered five or six feet below them.

"Now what?" Harry whispered.

Swearing a few last times, the potions master shook his head and turned around. "There's nothing for it. We'll have to find a different way."

Harry stared forlornly at the emptiness beyond his professor. Then his gaze turned to his legs. He had barely made it this far. Backtracking to the other set of stairs was a very long walk on a _good_ day.

The man's dark robes brushed his feet as Snape moved past him up the hallway. Harry watched him walk away, his heart rate accelerating with each step further away. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Wait!" He called after the professor.

Snape paused and glanced back. "I know a short cut. I need to find out if it's been sealed or not."

Visions of being left here, left alone, with an evil Dark Lord out for his blood, filled Harry's mind. He opened his mouth to argue – to demand to go with, to beg for Snape to stay – but found himself unable to come up with anything to say.

"It is not far."

Then the man was gone and Harry, staring wide-eyed into the shadows and gripping his wand tightly with his useable hand, was all alone.

...

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...

**To be continued...**


	13. Chapter 12: And When to Hide

**Bit of a shorter chapter, but the next one is rather long. It was simply THE place to break the chapters.  
**

**Massive snowstorm hitting the area today with windy, blowing conditions all night. I'm hoping for a good excuse to get to work seriously late tomorrow. Or not at all. I work 7-3, so if I can't get in until lunch... what's the point? :) I'm such an awesome employee.  
**

**If you're wanting to read more fic that I don't post here, follow me on DeviantArt - same username. I try not to cross-post between the sites. DA is more for my 'yeah, this ain't going anywhere' stuff.  
**

**Thank you to At Home Sick, Jaden 'Birdie' Blythe, Nightshade's sydneylover150, snapemartyr, SAGGYHERMAN, GOKOA, Thatsallwegot, MsFrizzle, BlackRoseDecending, IceDragon19, SnapesYukuai, Ritsuka Shin, irezel, ashtree22, ChicagoMyth, Sydney-Jo, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, and hazeldragon for the awesome reviews. **

**You 337 watchers? Ya'll rock, even though I don't hear from most of you. :)  
**

**...  
**

**This is AU. It begins at the end of the first book and continues from there. All events up to the end of the first book are canon.  
**

**Rated T for implied neglect and certain immature bodily functions.  
**

**...  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

**...**

Harry wasn't nearly as alone as he wanted to be.

"Harry Potter."

He remembered the raspy, broken voice perfectly. The voice cut through his ears and trailed down his spine like cold water. Holding his wand closer, Harry's eyes flickering back and forth in the hallway.

A bit of shadow stepped away from the rest. It was almost human formed, sickly white, bony hands coming from the shadows like hands from a robe. Red, inhuman eyes gleamed from the darkness. The whole creation was as solid as smoke, as restless as fire.

"You." It was the most Harry could come up with to say.

"Yesss..." The bodiless Dark Lord moved closer, holding out a hand. "We meet again."

With his breath catching loudly in his chest, Harry tried to scramble to his feet. His hope had been to run as far and as fast as he could, but his legs gave out on him. He collapsed into a pile, eyes wide, heart racing a million miles an hour. "You can't hurt me," Harry whispered.

"Perhaps." The voice seemed to echo from everywhere at once. The shadow-man moved forwards, floating effortlessly above the floor. "That _special _scar of yours. Created by death, granting life..."

Harry found himself scooting backwards as the spirit of Lord Voldemort floated closer. All too soon, he'd reacted the edge of the floor, his fingers wrapped around the empty space where the stairs used to be. Were _supposed_ to be. Harry swallowed, his throat dry and tight. "Wha- what do you want?"

The white hand reached forwards, fingers stretching, straining. But it stopped, drew back, and disappeared into the shadowed mass. "Many things, boy. But in their own time. First..."

Something like a water balloon whipped through the air. Harry raised a hand to block it, but the glob hit his arm and splattered. Strange, purple goo went everywhere. Most of it on Harry's body. He froze as the cold lotion seeped through his clothes. It stung where it oozed into his eyes.

Suddenly the cold hand was back, caressing his scar. "Such a beautiful creation, this Dark Mark of yours. I can feel the blood magic in it." Then there was a hiss of pain, the fingers vanishing.

"Don't touch me," Harry whispered, going for defiance. The goo was slipping between his fingers, making it harder to hold onto his wand. With every tremble of his arms, Harry's wand slipped further and further.

"First," the voice whispered, "Your wonderful teacher will grant me a body to use. Temporarily. Then, I'll find that Stone."

Nearly blinded by the purple ooze, Harry risked a swipe at his face with a sleeve and then a glare into the depths of the shadows. "You can't-"

"You, of course, are the body I will use to return to power. Once I figure out how to bypass the protections..." The red, snakelike eyes narrowed in delight. "And I will, young Harry Potter. Trust me."

More goo slipped down from his hair. It burned in Harry's eyes, forcing him to blink and squint. His eyes watered. "I won't-". He stopped the somewhat-angry but mostly-scared tirade. The shadow of the Dark Lord was gone. Vanished back into the smoke and mirrors from whence he'd come.

Harry shuddered, pulling his arms in close around his chest. His body was shaking. His chest ached from not breathing normally. Too fast, in and out and in and out.

He wiped at the goo on his face. Then stopped.

Blinked.

He looked up, staring down the hallway as horrible dread settled into his chest. Voldemort was on the loose and tracking down the one other living human in the castle. Snape.

Visions flickered through his mind of a possessed professor stalking down the hallway, trying to convince Harry that he was still Snape. Questions swirled about how Harry would ever be able to tell if the snarky man was possessed or not.

Be able to tell whether the person 'saving' him was his greasy potions master or an evil dark lord.

In a fit of panic, Harry scrambled to his feet and stumbled down the hallway. Each step he took felt stronger, more sure of itself. He had to get away before Snape came back. He couldn't trust the man anymore.

He'd turned the corner of the corridor, headed towards a back stairwell, before he realized how well he was walking. His knees felt strong, his legs not trembling like they used to. But his mind was in too much of a panic to stop and think much about it.

He just kept running.

With none of the magical stairs working, Harry found himself taking back routes and unknown hallways around the school. His mad dash race through the corridors had turned into a breathless trot down a hallway he didn't quite recognize. The portraits were empty and silent. The shadows dark and stretching. His breath rasped loudly in the hallway, his footsteps echoed.

Finally he stumbled to a stop, chest heaving and a gooey, slippery hand still clinging desperately to his wand. Purple haze billowed near the end of the corridor, staining the doors with a deathly hue.

Where was Hermione with her endless expanse of knowledge and planning skills? Where was Ron with his thoughtless joke that would take everyone's minds off their troubles? Where was _anyone_ who could help him?

Harry slowly sank to his knees near the feet of one of the suits of armor, peering up and down the hallway. He licked at his lips. Then spat out the horrible taste of the purple goo still smeared across his face.

What to do? Where to go?

Heart pounding rapidly in his ears, Harry crouched in the shadows and waited for inspiration to hit.

The school was blocked off. There would be no escape even if he made it out the school. He'd just have fewer hiding spots. But continuing to sit here would get him nowhere.

He knew that he needed to do _something_. Voldemort couldn't be allowed to return to power. Very possibly, the only person who had the opportunity to stop the evil Dark Lord's plans was Harry. Snape might not be able to. He might be possessed by now. Snape had said it was hard to possess someone who didn't want to, but surely the ghostly Voldemort had more experience with possession than a potions professor. Perhaps Snape had just said that to make Harry feel better.

Breath came into his lungs, was held for a long moment, trying to stop the almost frantic panting. Then it gushed out in a huge wave. Harry dared to set down his wand just long enough to wipe his hand on a bit of his robe that was still somewhat clean.

There was nothing more for it. Harry had to do something. Scared or otherwise, he needed to do something. Now.

Voldemort had told him what was about to happen. He was going to take over Snape and steal the Stone.

Harry had no idea how to tell if someone was possessed, much less how to stop someone from being possessed. Like it or not, Snape was a lost cause.

So that left one thing Harry could do.

"Potter!"

Harry froze, staring down the hallway where the hissed name had come from. Snape. Still out of sight around a corner. Harry hadn't been seen.

"Stop bloody hiding, you idiot child."

With no time left to spare, Harry got to his feet and raced forwards. Towards the purple mist that would steal away what little bit of magic he knew.

Towards the Stone.

...

.

...

The Dark Lord leaned against the wall, having watched the expressions on Harry's face as the boy went through all those mental gyrations. He chuckled, very softly. "Go, young Harry. Get my Stone for me."

The red eyes turned to watch Severus Snape creep around a corner, following the obvious trail of purple goo on the floor. "Idiot, arrogant child," the man muttered as he stopped beside the statue, staring down at the rather large puddle of goo on the floor. "What are you running from?" Then a quieter, "And how are you running?"

Leaning down, the man scooped up a finger full of goo and held it to his nose. Dark eyes narrowed. Stared down the hallway towards the purple haze. "That's not good." Standing up and glancing around, eyes lingering on the spot where the Dark Lord was standing. "I better not be blamed for this nonsense," he hissed as he turned to stalk down the hallway.

...

.

...

**To be continued...**


	14. Chapter 13: Lost in the Smoke

**Thoughts and prayers to the victims and families in Connecticut...  
**

**Thank you to SnapesYukuai, GOKOA, MsFrizzle, almightyswot, BlackRoseDecnding, frodothejedi, Zireael07, Kathie says Hai, snapemartyr, Thatsallwegot, Ritsuka Shin, EbonyWing, SAGGYHERMAN, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, and Nightshade's sydneylover150 for the awesome reviews.  
**

...

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...**  
**

**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

...

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...**  
**

Harry slipped through the purple haze. It was dark in the hallway – the little, flickering magic lights were no longer working. As it had before, Harry's magic had been pulled away by the strange smoke. No matter how furiously Harry whispered "_Lumos"_ or how fiercely he flicked his wand, no light jumped to his call.

Tripping over a collapsed suit of armor, Harry hissed in pain as his knee slammed into the hard, stone floor. "Bloody hell," he whispered, rubbing at his knee and squinting through the darkness. "I'd kill for a candle."

A thought sparkled in his head. "Necky?" He paused, then shook his head. "No, that wasn't its name. Nebby? Netty?" He called out into the haze.

Nothing came. No helpful little creature wringing its ears and grinning with delight at having some order to fulfill. Just darkness stretching in every direction, what little light filtered through the small windows stained a horrible purple.

Harry stumbled back to his feet and, with a slight limp, started to work his way further into the depths of the castle. He needed to get to the Stone before Voldemort did. It was the only way he could think of to stop the Dark Lord from taking over the world – and his own body.

His fingers brushed over empty paintings, missing the usual tingle of magic that had always accompanied touching one of the magical portraits. Harry briefly wondered where the people had gone. They had obviously decided to get as far away from this purple smoke as they could. Harry couldn't blame them for it; he didn't particularly want to be in this strange fog either.

A door that lead to nothing. Another painting. Another suit of armor spread on the ground like empty tin cans. Harry stepped gingerly around them, dreading tripping for a second time. Magic must have originally held them up, that's why they were collapsed now. Another door, this one closed. Then another, open into a deserted classroom.

But Harry wasn't looking for a door. He was looking for the huge hole in the wall where Snape had literally blown a door of its hinges.

A shudder ran down his spine as he pictured Snape, possessed by the darkest Lord to grace the country in decades, stalking down the hallway towards them. Snape, with his terrifying knowledge of potions. Voldemort with his terrifying… everything. And a bit of insanity on top.

Something crashed behind him. He froze, straining to see back into the abyss that was the hallway. With the exceptions of small pools of purple haze by the windows, nothing could be seen. The smoke swirled and billowed in the faint light.

Harry started to pick up the pace, trying to be as silent as possible. He knew he was the only person stupid enough to go walking through the dungeons of the school at the moment – any noise that was made was going to pinpoint his location. His feet shuffled along the floor.

Then he saw it, a new vague glow just in front of him. This wasn't one of the slit-like windows that usually illuminated the lowest levels of the castle. This one was a large hole in the hallway, with light shining from inside a devastated apartment.

"I found it," he whispered. Then his foot slammed into something metal.

_Clang, clang, clang…_

The thing rolled across the hallway, banging loudly at the junction of every paving stone. Harry winced in time with it, holding his breath as he listened to the rest of the sounds in the castle. When the metal object finally came to a stop, Harry was still standing shock-still, desperately hoping that nobody had heard that.

Although he couldn't figure how someone could have _missed_ it.

With no other sounds reaching his ears, Harry crept towards the hole leading to Snape's school-based home, carefully setting his feet down to avoid any other metal objects that might be in residence on the floor. Finally, his fingers closed around the edge of the destroyed wall, little bits of stone crumbling under his hand.

Faint light shown through the window Snape had opened. It oozed a shadowed visibility into the room, lighting the destroyed table, the overturned chairs, and the smoke-stained remains of the living room. Harry blinked at the destruction, once more astonished that he'd lived through it – twice – and then slunk into the flat.

He worked his way slowly around the table, grimacing at the rather large, dark stain on the floor where he'd lain for a long time. He wasn't much of a medic, but judging from the size of the stain, he was trapped with the faint and unwelcome sense of thankfulness that someone – even a Dark Lord – had put a rag against his head to stop the bleeding. Voldemort or not, Harry didn't think loosing more blood than he already had could possibly be a good thing.

Hands finally pressed against the kitchen counter. He knew that he'd seen candles sitting out on the kitchen counter before. There was just the question of where they were and how far they'd fallen with the room exploding around them. He groped around, the fingers of his good hand running over forks and spoons and plates and even a cup that felt like it still had liquid in it. Tea, perhaps. Cold.

Then something waxy. Harry grabbed it, carefully feeling it as he held it up to the faint light of the window. Long and tapered, with a wick at one end. "Yes!"

Harry awkwardly moved the wand around in his bandaged, left hand, pressing the tip against the wick. Then stopped.

Groaned.

"Bloody idiot! I can't light this with magic!" He dropped his left hand again, but didn't put his wand away. It was the one thing he had that might save his life. It probably wouldn't work, but Harry wasn't willing to chance putting it away. If worse came to worse, he was going to die with his wand in his hand – useless stick or otherwise.

He stared to pull open drawers, knowing that someone like Snape would have a box of matches lying around somewhere. His potions class had gotten enough lectures on the destructive properties of raw magic on potions – even using magic to start a fire could destroy a potion. Snape wouldn't rely only on magic to create flames.

Four drawers in, Harry found a small matchbook filled with matches. Matches and candle in one hand, wand in the other, Harry stood in the semi-darkness – rather at a loss as to what to do. He couldn't light the candle without using both hands – and neither could have a wand held tightly in it.

"Come on, Harry, set the wand down," he whispered to himself. His left hand hovered over the counter, but his fingers refused to release their grip. The second they started to loosen, Harry found himself glancing over his shoulder at the darkness beyond the hole in the wall, his fingers tightening back up again. "Harry. Set the wand down."

Even to himself, he didn't sound very convinced.

"Fine," he finally snapped – quietly – and carefully maneuvered the candle into his left hand along with his wand. With the bandages in the way and his hand full, Harry had to use his teeth to yank out a match. He struck it against the countertop, watching the brilliant light flare to life. "Now we're talking!"

It took only seconds for the candle to be lit and glowing, the match whipped back and forth through the air until it was out. Harry put the candle back into his right hand and held it out, grinning as the room jumped into view. Many of the shadows raced back into their hiding places.

Taking one last look back at the hallway where purple haze was swirling, Harry turned his attention on the hallway Snape had vanished through so many times when Harry had been 'living' here. Picking his way through the destruction, Harry headed towards the darkness.

The hallway stretched long before him, shadows chasing and mocking him in front and behind. Harry's eyes quickly grew used to the brightness of the candle, making the dark depths of the shadows even harder to pierce.

Something swirled out of the corner of his eye. Harry stopped and stared in the direction of the movement, heart leaping into his chest. It would be like Snape: to catch him _just_ before he could sneak into the man's 'secret lab' – or whatever the greasy professor had hidden in the depths of his apartment.

But it wasn't Snape. There were no other people in the hallway. All that met Harry's probing gaze was a book, sprawled forgotten on the ground. Stepping up to it, still looking around, Harry bent to pick up the tiny book.

"An Introduction of Darke Creatures: book one." Harry flipped the book to stare at the back, then back to the cover, wondering what it was he'd seen move. It certainly hadn't been this book. He was about to drop it when something about it caught his attention.

The book… _tingled_.

Like magic.

Harry's eyes narrowed. He glanced around the small flat, knowing he really didn't have time to deal with this. He needed to get to the Stone and get it someplace safe from the Dark Lord, but curiosity started to needle at his gut. The purple haze cancelled magic out. But the book…

Attention more fully focused on the tiny book, Harry noticed that something was sticking out of one of the pages. It was a bit of paper, wedged between two of the pages.

He hesitated before opening it, though. The book was magical, and there was no doubt that the book had ensnared him before. Forced him to read about the horrors of some of the dark things around the world. Demons and inferi, werewolves and vampires.

Harry carefully rearranged all the things he was trying to hold in his bandaged hand so that he could open the book and glance inside, willing himself not to actually read anything. To slam the book closed the second he felt a compulsion to keep reading.

The bit of paper was blank and discolored, more a bookmark than anything else. The paper marked the beginning of a chapter entitled, "Folk of the Elixir." A huge picture of the Sorcerer's Stone graced the facing page.

Harry stared blankly at the book, then up at the darkness where Snape or Voldemort could possibly be hiding. "You gave me a book to read about the Stone? That was…"

His gaze was drawn back to the book, trailing almost instinctively over the words written between the picture. "The Sorcerer's Stone – also known as the Philosopher's Stone – was reported to be invented in the late 800's by a dark wizard attempting to live forever. Mentions of an immortal Stone, however, date back to time before written history."

"A Stone is created through a bloody, horrible ritual where many lives are taken and souls supposedly placed into the Stone. One of those souls must be an infant child, killed as the babe takes its thirteen breath. The Stone is then placed in the infant's mouth. As its thirteenth - and last - breath leaves its body, the infant's soul is placed inside the Stone."

"The Stone can be used to create an 'Elixir of Life'. People who drink from this Elixir are often known as 'Folk of the Elixir', as they are forever stained by its Dark origins. Those who do not die do not live, and therefore are Marked. The Elixir steals what life would have remained, forcing the wizard to chose between forever drinking of its bounty or dying a death that mirrors that of the innocents killed to create the Stone."

"Folk of the Elixir are not immortal. They are easily killed, as well as become highly reactive to many magical ingredients. Exposure to aconite, for example, creates horrible boils and convulsions. Beware-"

Something rattled.

Harry tore his eyes away from the book, eyes wide as he stared into the darkness. The rattling noise came again, this time Harry was able to focus on it and it sounded quite far away. Someone had perhaps tripped over a suit of armor. Harry quietly prayed that if Snape was already possessed, Voldemort had gotten seriously hurt in the fall.

He let out a shaky breath and kept his eyes away from the book. He'd been reading again, not able to stop. The book had pulled him in – it was a good thing Snape hadn't snuck up on him like that.

Closing the book without looking back down, Harry absently stuck it into his pocket. The picture of his mother and Snape crinkled in the quiet. "I've got to get the Stone," he whispered.

Creeping down the hallway, Harry stopped by one of the doors he'd be unable to open the last time he'd been in this hallway. He'd been furious at Snape, that much he remembered. Sitting there, waiting to demand answers as to his relationship with Harry's mother.

Then everything had gone up in smoke.

This time, one of the doors was open. Harry walked up to it, noticing that it seemed to be hanging crooked. Blown off its hinges, probably. Harry dragged his eyes off the door and stepped into Snape's private, personal laboratory.

In class, Snape was always a very clean, organized person. He came down hard on anyone who dared to make a mess, much less leave the mess for someone else to clean up. Judging from the sheer amount of broken glass and dangling shelving, Harry had to believe that this lab had once been spotless and horribly organized.

Now, it was a disaster. An overturned cauldron lay over a smothered fire, its contents still burping out dense, purple bubbles. The small window in the lab was open, the haze billowing out into the late evening sky. Potions ingredients – some Harry recognized, many he did not – lay scattered over a liquid-smeared counter.

Movement. Harry spun, but found himself staring at his own reflection. Purple ooze covered him from head to toe. His hair was plastered to his face, his clothes hanging damp and heavy on his small frame. He shook his head and looked away, unwilling to be distracted from his hunt.

He crunched his way through the broken glass and potions ingredients, looking for anything resembling the blood red Stone he'd held in his hand not six weeks earlier. Although, now that he knew what went into the _making_ of the Stone, he had to admit the thought of its smooth, warm surface now gave him the creeps.

Tiny blue flowers caught his gaze. Harry glanced back at the door to the lab, the crouched down to touch the tiny flowers. His eyes narrowed as he fingered the leaves.

"As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite." Harry could almost hear the taunting words of his professor in his ears from that first, poisonous day of class. He'd taken it upon himself to look up the poisonous flower later that night, determined to not let some snarky professor get the better of him.

"Highly reactive," he whispered, standing up with the delicate flowers cradled in his hand. He stuck the flowers in his pocket as he kept up his search.

After nearly fifteen minutes, Harry found himself back where he'd started, staring at the remains of the fire and the belching purple liquid. There was no Stone to be seen. He scowled, then winced as a bit of candle wax from the burning candle dribbled onto his hand. "Where would he hide it?"

Harry turned on his heel, studying every square inch of the not-too-huge lab. There weren't many hiding spots. Unless there was some sort of hidden compartment in a wall, everything was out to be seen. He'd _looked_ through everything.

With a horrible sigh, Harry started to slowly walk back towards the door leading to Snape's apartment. He couldn't afford to stand here forever – Snape no doubt was expecting him to come this way and would follow him. But Harry didn't want to leave without the Stone.

He _had_ to stop Voldemort. It felt like it was his responsibility. His job. His…

Wait a second.

Harry stopped and backtracked. Holding up his candle to the large, standing mirror he'd gotten frightened by before, Harry smiled. The person in the mirror did the same, illuminating the words written in gilded letters around the mirror.

"_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_," Harry breathed. He felt his heart start to race in his chest as sudden knowledge flooded his brain. A tiny grin split his face.

His eyes focused back on his own, purple-stained face. "I need to know where Snape's hiding the stone," he whispered, stepping a bit closer. "It's what I want, more than anything in the world…"

Someone moved in the purple haze in the reflection. Harry winced and spun around, but nobody was behind him. When Harry slowly turned back, the 'someone' moving in the haze had resolved itself into Snape. Harry nodded, catching on to what the mirror was showing him.

The mirror-Snape seemed to be in terrific pain, hobbling around the destroyed laboratory. One of his legs was mangled, blood covering his torn robes. Harry winced in remembered sympathy at the agony on the man's face. The man kicked over the potion, letting it smother the flames, then turned to push open the window.

He stood still for a few seconds before pulling out his wand and waving it around, apparently trying for a spell. Curiosity, then anger, than something that looked a lot like fear flickered across his face. His fingers clenched convulsively around his wand, his eyes jumping from place to place.

"He knew," Harry said softly. "Right then, he knew that someone was in the castle. Someone had sabotaged his potion. Then he comes to find me…"

Only, that's not what the mirror-Snape did. The man first scrounged around his lab, grabbing various ingredients and stuffing his pockets full of the remaining glass vials. Then he grabbed a tiny something out of the corner. A blood red something.

"He's _got_ the Stone?!" Harry felt the world fall out from underneath him. Harry sank to his knees, eyes wide, watching in amazement as the man put the Stone in a tiny breast pocket and then worked his way out of the lab and away from the mirror. "Snape's got the Stone… already." He smacked himself on the forehead, feeling the purple goo in his hair squelch. "Of course, why would he leave something like the Stone unguarded in a destroyed lab after what had just happened?"

"But then, when Voldemort finds him and takes him over…" Harry let his voice trail off, gazing at his own purple reflection. The mirror-Harry drew a finger across its throat. Harry nodded in agreement, looking away.

A slow, depressed breath leached from his lungs as he got to his feet. "So now what?" he wondered, asking mirror.

The mirror-Harry sat back down and shook his head. Mirror-Ron and mirror-Hermione slid into the picture and crouched down behind mirror-Harry, patting his back and no doubt whispering plans into his ear.

"Yeah, I wish they were here, but that's not helping." Harry watched, but the mirror didn't change its view. Finally, with a shake of his head, Harry slunk out of the lab and back down the hallway. He slipped into the darkness of Snape's apartment, grabbed the book of matches as he crept through the destruction, and carefully blew out the candle before stepping back out into the hallway.

He didn't know where he was going. But staying here in Snape's home would be certain death. Voldemort was on the prowl - and would be headed in this direction.

Harry found himself working his way higher and higher through the darkened corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The stairs led both ways, but Harry had always found higher things to feel safer. Dungeons, basements, and closets under the stairs weren't happy things. Roofs, trees, and broomsticks were places where the bullying population generally weren't. It was almost instinct to head to the top of any set of stairs he came across.

Hopefully the two former dungeon-dwelling Slytherins had an equal and exactly opposite reaction.

Cresting the top of a new flight of stairs, Harry found himself nearly back to the hospital wing. The huge, empty picture framing showing nothing but a card table – its normally boisterous occupants long gone – was one of the landmarks in the school. Harry paused next to it, touched it gently with his fingertips.

A few more steps found the ever-present purple haze to be thinning. A dozen more steps, turn the corner, and Harry stepped into the clear, clean air. He took a few deep breaths, waving his wand with a quickly whispered, "_Lumos_."

While nobody could blame Harry for wanting a bit of light after all that time in the dark with two people chasing after him, it turned out to be an absolutely horrible decision.

"Potter."

The light on Harry's wand vanished as he glanced towards the sound of the voice. Snape was standing just around the corner, a look of pure fury on his pale face. "Professor," he whispered, taking a step backwards.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, making me chase after you like you're a bloody dog?" the man hissed, his eyes sharp and burning. "Get over here. _Now_."

Shaking his head, Harry stumbled a few steps backwards. Voldemort's voice whispered in his memories, reminding him that Snape was the target. Snape, who might already be possessed. Was, probably.

Take a few steps forwards, his body dark and hard to see in the heavy shadows, Snape snarled out a quiet, "Were you _not_ listening when I told you who was loose in the school?"

"I was listening," Harry breathed. He was scanning the man, looking for any sign of possession. "I-"

"Do you have a death wish?" Snape's voice was trembling with so much fury it was almost impossible to make out.

"No, but-" Harry stumbled backwards, his body running up against a wall. He had no way of knowing if this was his hated potions professor or Voldemort in the body of Snape.

"_Stop moving_," the man snapped. "We need to-"

Snape stepped from the fog just as white hands, shrouded in the blackest of mist, curled around his throat. When Snape opened his mouth to shout, his eyes wide in surprise, the dark fog raced into his mouth and nose and eyes. Snape stumbled backwards into the mist, coughing and clawing at his throat, and then collapsed to the ground.

Harry stood perfectly still, his eyes filled with fear, his heart pounding in his chest. He watched Snape lay there, still and silent.

Then the professor moved. Just an arm, waving around weirdly in the air. The other arm joined it. His legs twitched and seemed to be trying to dance to different tunes while Snape was lying on the ground. Finally there was a cough and the man got to his feet.

Slowly, he looked up through the purple fog surrounding him. The greasy, black hair covering his face parted.

Red eyes stared at Harry above an insane, evil grin.

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**To be continued...**


	15. Chapter 14: Face to Face with Darkness

**Sorry this is a day late - holiday parties.  
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**Thank you to Lucy Weasley, RatchetsGril, MsFrizzle, Anisney-Robin, starsinjars, GOKOA, snapemartyr, saggyherman, SnapesYukuai, JuliSnape02, keske, excessivelyperky, thatsallwegot, Nightshade's sydneylover150, Wilona Riva, Zureael07, Ritsuka Shin, ChineseisGreek2Me, ChicagoMyth, SpencerReid, Hentai18ancilla, EbondyWing, Gyvir26, and Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet for the awesome reviews.  
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**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

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"Potter."

The mouth that moved was Snape's but the voice was Voldemort's. It was whispery and shadowed, causing chills to run down Harry's back. Harry flinched away from the voice, then stood up straighter, using the wall to hold himself upright. "Voldemort," he whispered.

Voldemort-Snape chuckled. "I must thank you. Such a wonderful little pawn you are."

Harry shook his head and started to slide along the wall. "You can't touch me-"

"Not yet." Voldemort-Snape brushed at the slightly-wrinkled robes he was wearing, pulling himself up to Snape's full height. Purple fog swirled ominously around the man. "Such a wonderful body you've brought to me." The man's grin grew into a sneer, flexing his fingers into fists.

Harry shuddered.

"After all we went through to get the Stone the first time, I'm surprised you never realized I couldn't enter into that fog. You didn't even bother to listen when your potions professor said couldn't be possessed out of the fog. Not so smart, are you?" Taking a few steps forwards, Voldemort-Snape stepped out into the clear air. He took a deep breath and looked down his nose at Harry. "And what perfect timing. Falling backwards into the Leaching Fog destroyed his occlumency barriers." The man pulled out Snape's wand and tapped it a few times, red sparks flying from the end of the wand. "All. Thanks. To you."

Harry's eyes were wide as he slipped farther away from the possessed body of Snape, his heart racing and his breath catching in his throat. "No-"

"Now, for my Stone." Voldemort-Snape strode up to Harry, holding out Snape's hand. The fingers were long, bony, and white. Small cuts and stains marked years of potion making. "Give it to me, boy."

Realization that Voldemort didn't know the location of the Stone slammed into Harry's brain like a bullet train. His mouth dangling open, his eyes locked on Snape's red ones, Harry found himself unable to breathe, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

It didn't seem to matter. Voldemort-Snape simply narrowed his eyes and leaned closer, one finger coming out to trace against Harry's scar. This time, Voldemort didn't try to touch him, keeping his finger at least an inch above Harry's skin. The man snorted in a distinctly Snape-like fashion, a smirk on his face. "With your death so prominently in my mind, I will never be able to touch you again." The red eyes peered deeper into Harry's green orbs. "What wonders I could show you - the depths of pain you could endure. The way you would beg for the darkness of death." Voldemort-Snape shuddered.

The man stood up, reached up, and pulled the Stone out of Snape's pocket. "Thank you for showing me that little memory."

What little breath Harry had still in him left in a woosh at the sight of the Stone in Voldemort-Snape's cold, pale fingers. "No!" the word came out in a rush, louder than Harry had expected. It had been practically a scream. His hands bunched into fists by his sides.

Harry couldn't let this happen. He couldn't let Voldemort get the Stone, not after all that had happened at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. Not with the way everyone was counting on him to be the savior of the wizarding world. His fingers wrapped tightly around his wand as he raised it into the air. Spells jumped into his mind.

"_Incarcerous._" Voldemort-Snape flicked Snape's black wand in Harry's direction. Ropes sprung from nowhere to wrap around Harry's body and send him tumbling to the ground. Fighting down a yelp of pain from his shoulder hitting the ground, Harry felt his wand pop from his fingers. It rolled out of his grasp.

Harry struggled a few moments before looking up in a panic at Voldemort. The man was eyeing the Stone, not paying any attention to Harry's trussed-up movements. Twisting slightly, Harry gazed at his wand, fervently willing the thing to fly through the air back to his fingers. Nothing happened. Not for the first time, he wished he could do wandless magic like some of the professors – if he could call his wand to him, he might stand a chance of getting out of the ropes. As it was…

There was the sound of rock hitting metal. Harry stopped struggling and stared in horror at the scene playing out near him. Voldemort had conjured a golden chalice and had dropped the Stone inside. "Do you know, Harry," Voldemort-Snape whispered, "how to destroy the Stone?"

Harry didn't bother to shake his head, as Voldemort wasn't paying any attention to him anyway. The man was staring at the chalice in his hands in adoration.

"To drink the Elixir from a golden chalice grants everlasting life. To drink the Elixir from the Holy Grail brings the destruction of the Stone." Voldemort glanced at him side-long. "As you seem to struggle with basic logic, let me inform you that this is _not_ a Holy Grail." His gaze back on the chalice, Voldemort raised Snape's wand. "_Aqua eructo_."

Water spilled from the air into the chalice, splashing and ringing against the golden sides. When the water ceased, Voldemort lowered the wand. The liquid inside the chalice started to glow blue, then bloody red.

"My Elixir," Voldemort whispered. His eyes fixed on the prize, Voldemort carefully raised the chalice to Snape's lips, tipped his head back, and drank the glowing, blood-stained water.

Harry was watching in pure horror. His mind was filled with memories from the book he'd read, about how Snape was now tainted for the rest of existence. Unable to die, unable to live, trapped in a place between - forever.

Voldemort was standing still, Snape's eyes half-closed, the golden chalice mostly forgotten in his hand. "Such a taste," he breathed. "To taste _life_! Eternal life."

Slowly Voldemort-Snape's eyes opened and he turned to stare at Harry. Harry squirmed, but he was held tight by the ropes, unable to move more than a few inches even with the best of attempts. His heart was pounding in his ears. He was in such a panic that his nose was running.

"Now what do with you." Voldemort paced closer until the edge's of Snape's robes were brushing Harry's prone body. "Your death will come slowly, Harry Potter, as my potion wears off." The man crouched down and ran a finger through Harry's hair, bringing a glob of the purple goo up to his nose to sniff. "Yes, it is already weakening. Hours, boy, is all you have left. Inevitable."

Carefully wiping his hand on his robes, Voldemort got back to his feet to tower over him. "Or to kill you quickly and clean up the loose ends?"

Harry shivered and kicked up the intensity of his squirming. He had to get free. There was no way he was just going to lay here and _die_! Courage and pure terror mixed inside of him in a heady combination that granted him seemingly boundless energy.

Apparently uncaring about Harry's struggles, Voldemort tapped Snape's fingers against his lips. "You've been such a good servant. Getting my Stone and a body for me. Much better than Quirrell." Then came the smile. Cold and deadly. "Your reward is to die. I will show you the wonders of pain, the creativity of the Dark, before death takes you."

The ropes vanished like they'd never been. Caught in the middle of a huge twist of his body, Harry ended up sprawled on the ground, his arms and legs spread out. Surprised and stunned, he lay there for a half-a-heartbeat before scrambling to his feet. He stared at Voldemort, eyes wide, sparing a glance towards where his wand had rolled. All the way across the hallway, against the wall. Out of play.

Voldemort raised Snape's wand, pointed it towards Harry's head. Magic coalesced in a spine-tingling wave.

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, wrapping his fingers tightly around the picture of his mother. He could remember the way she smiled and waved, like she knew he was looking. Like she loved him more than anything in the world – even though he wasn't born when the picture was taken.

She'd given her life for him, and now Voldemort was back to finish the job. Harry swallowed heavily, saddened at this turn of life. There would be no Dumbledore swooping in at the last moment. There would be no savior. Harry felt his eyes close.

There was only Harry, a picture of his mother, and a handful of delicate, blue flowers.

Harry's eyes flicked open. Aconite.

"_Avada Ked_-"

Harry's legs moved before the thought even finished itself. The streak of green light slammed into the wall behind Harry's head, him ducking out of the way and then throwing himself at Voldemort-Snape. The man barely had time to turn and raise his wand before Harry had crashed into Snape's stomach.

They tumbled to the ground, Harry yanking the aconite flowers out of his pocket. A crumbled mess that was oozing nectar, they were none-the-less stuffed into Snape's mouth as Voldemort opened it to say something. The man chocked a bit as he spit them back out and kicked Harry off.

Harry – breath knocked from his lungs by the kick – lay on the floor, his chest lurching as he attempted to breathe. Voldemort-Snape got to his feet with a snarl. Raised his wand.

Stopped.

With a look of panic, Voldemort-Snape raised a hand to his throat. Huge boils were springing to life across the man's face and neck. The skin was flushing red as Snape started to claw at his throat. Chocked-off sounds of fear were all that could be heard.

Harry managed to get a bit of air in his lungs and sat up. "Didn't you know?" he husked. "People who drink the Elixir become allergic to potions."

Voldemort wasn't paying any attention. He was too busy being trapped inside of a dying body. Harry watched in a painful combination of horror and delight as the terrifying man collapsed to the ground, blood weeping from claw marks on his throat, lips turning blue from lack of oxygen.

"Too bad Madam Pomfrey's not around," Harry said as Voldemort's gaze became a little glossy. "She's good with allergies."

Black, horrible fog drained from Snape's nose and ears. The fog slowly curled itself into a shadowy form hovering fitfully over the potion master's still, silent body. "Potter," the thing whispered. Some strange emotion made his voice tremble - it could have been fear or pure fury, Harry couldn't tell. Voldemort turned his red eyes back to Harry. "When I come back, no one will stop me."

Harry stared at the little bit of shadow that was all that remained of Lord Voldemort. "Dumbledore-"

The thing hissed. "Dumbledore is old and frail. He is nothing but mirrors and shadows, hiding behind who he used to be. It is I who will rise triumphant. And it is you who will die." The creature lurched a bit closer, snarling. "Inevitable." With those last words, the wispy shadow of the Dark Lord blurred and vanished.

Harry pressed his back against the wall, letting it take his weight. His eyes trailed over to the still, empty form of his potions professor and its staring, blank eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. A little bit of paper caught his gaze, crumpled slightly and lying on the ground near his professor's body. Harry reached out with trembling fingers and picked it up, carefully smoothing out the photograph of his mother. It must have fallen from his pocket when he yanked out the aconite.

She smiled at him serenely, forever trapped with her hand raised to wave, the tree limbs caught blowing in the wind. Harry blinked down at it, a thick sigh caught in his throat. Something dripped into his eye and he tried to bring his hand up to swipe it away.

Only his arms and legs felt like they were made of lead. Something heavy was pulling at him, dragging him downwards, not letting him move. Something was very wrong.

Harry tried to stand up, but his body refused to move. Feeling like they weighed ten pounds apiece, Harry's eyelids slid shut. Little bits of panic oozed and burst inside his mind, but even that was drowned in the horrible feeling of utter exhaustion that was clamoring through him.

As his body sunk to the floor, he finally felt it. The purple goo Voldemort had thrown on him - the gunk still covering his body - was leaching energy from his very core. Draining him. Sucking up every last drop until he wouldn't even have the energy to breath or think or have a heartbeat.

Until he died.

Mind quickly sliding into blackness, Harry let his thoughts drift to his friends, to the parents he never knew.

And then he was gone. And the castle was filled with nothing but silence, the whisper of ghosts, and the quick breathing of the house elves huddled in terror in the kitchens.

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**To be continued...**


	16. Chapter 15: The Hospital Wing Again

**Due to a New Year's party this weekend, I am uploading a day early - rather than late, like last weekend's holiday party. :)  
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**Reminder to keep an eye on my deviantart account for more HP drabbles, stories, and short bits of nonsense that do not show up on this site.  
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**Thank you to irezel, snapemartyr, Wilona Riva, bybytte, Aerois, Guest, Nightshade's sydneylover150, ADakaJMJD, SnapesYukuai, Nefari, Ritsuka Shin, saggyherman, Thatsallwegot, Fringie7, CastlePhoenix, starsinjars, Zireael07, keske, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, GOKOA, Anisney-Robin, Lady Bahiya, BlackRoseDecending, GonaStar, ennui deMorte, JulieSnape02, EbonyWing and frodothejedi for the awesome reviews!**

**Happy New Year, everybody. :D  
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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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For what felt like the millionth time, Harry found himself opening his eyes in the hospital wing. White ceiling. White walls. White doors. White sheets. And – Merlin forbid – white hospital gowns.

Only this time, he wasn't so alone. "Mr. Potter."

Harry turned his head to stare at the mediwitch of Hogwarts. White hair tucked securely in an old-style nurse's hat, the woman arched a stern eyebrow. Harry found himself sinking into the bed, wondering what he'd done wrong _now_.

Then he was struck by the thought that he wasn't as dead as he was supposed to be. "I'm alive?" He winced at the harsh sound of his voice, not having expected to actually say that aloud.

"Quite. Although the Leaching Salve did quite a number on you. You've been asleep for nearly a week." The mediwitch shook her head and sat down to peer into his eyes and mouth. "You are not supposed to cover yourself in it."

"I didn't try to," Harry protested softly.

She patted his cheek. "Of course not, dear. But you are still a bit purple, despite our best efforts." Getting to her feet, she settled a potion on the bedside table. "Drink this up."

Harry gazed down at his hands, turning them this way and that. There was a faint purple tinge to his skin, making it look rather bruised. When he heard the sound of her shoes click on the stones, he looked up. "What about Snape?"

"_Professor_ Snape," came a hoarse snarl.

Harry's head nearly whipped around, eyes wide as he took in the lounging form of his potions professor. Disgusting-looking pustules covered his arms, chest, and face. His skin was flushed red and looked like it was sweating. "You're… alive?"

The man opened a dark eye to glare at him. "No thanks to you."

A smile was forming on Harry's face. "How did… I thought Vol- the Dark Lord… he _killed you!_"

"Elixir of _Life_, Potter," the man snarked, his gloomy tone unable to wipe the grin from Harry's mouth. "Just how dense _are_ you?"

"From what I hear," came a new voice, "_you_ are the one he has to thank for his current, Voldemort-less condition."

Harry glanced up at Headmaster Dumbledore, pushing the grumpy professor from his mind for the moment. "You made it."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Barely, I will admit. The wards were sealed up quite nicely."

"How did you get through?" Harry tried to sit up, but a sharp coughing noise from the nurse's station stopped his movement and he collapsed back against the cushions with a sigh. Harry had been in the hospital wing enough times to understand the language known as 'Hospital Wing'.

"That wonderful Leaching Fog." Dumbledore settled onto the edge of Harry's bed and smiled at him. "It devours magic, you realize. Once it had spread far enough from the castle to touch the wards… They all came down." The smile on his face slipped, just a bit. "I am sorry, Harry, for getting you wrapped up in this. I should have foreseen…"

There was a snort. "If you two are going to chat, would you find someplace else? I am trying to sleep." Snape's voice was hoarse and empty.

Dumbledore turned to study the other professor before looking back at Harry. "I'm afraid Severus is correct, Harry. After what you both have been through, you need the rest. We'll have to chat at some other time."

"But I-" Harry started.

The headmaster gently patted Harry's shoulder. "Later, Harry. I believe Poppy left a potion for you to drink."

Harry scowled, but nodded. When Dumbledore picked up the potion, pulled out the stopper, and handed it to him, Harry took it with a sharp breath and drained the potion down. He shuddered.

Mud.

Running his tongue over his teeth, Harry set the vial back on the table and settled against the cushions. Sleep was starting to pull at his eyes again, making him wonder if there hadn't been a bit of sleeping drought in that potion.

As his eyes closed, Dumbledore stood up, went over to Snape's bed, and gently patted him on shoulder too. "You did good, Severus," the old man whispered.

If the grumpy, snarky potions master had a response, Harry didn't hear it.

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...

Harry lay in his bed in the hospital wing, ignoring the tuttering of the mediwitch sitting in her office. No doubt the woman would rather be somewhere else – it _was_ her summer vacation after all – but she never seemed to complain about being trapped back at the school with two sick patients.

He stretched his legs, spreading his toes as far as they would go underneath the crisp, white sheets. It felt _extremely_ good to be able to move properly. He was still bone tired, it would be a challenge to simply get out of bed, he knew, but at least the deep seated ache was gone.

The grin on his face must have given something away. "What are you so happy about?"

Turning to look at his potions professor, Harry let the smile slip a touch, the pleasure that had been singing through his body at the feel of the stretch fading to a gentle simmer in his stomach. "I don't know."

Snape hrumphed and settled deeper into his pillows. "If I must be trapped in here with you, could you at least tone down your amusement?"

Thick, pink lotion was spread over the boils on his face and arms, giving him the appearance of having polka-dots. Contrasted with the paleness of his skin, Snape had the look of a clown lying in a hospital bed. Harry felt a corner of his mouth twitch back into the smile as he thought about how Ron was going to react when he was told about this.

"Gryffindors," the man grouched, looking away to glare at the opposite wall.

Shrugging away the faint insult, Harry looked out the window, watching the birds flying around in the summer sunshine. After being in and out of sleep so much, he didn't have a clue what the date was – simply that it was summer and apparently an incredibly nice day. The mediwitch had cracked open some of the windows earlier, letting in a warm summer breeze. "I wish I was out there," Harry said softly, not intending anyone to hear.

Snape made a strange noise, which dragged Harry's eyes away from the gently moving clouds. The man was gazing blankly at him with a tilt to his head.

"What?" Harry asked. "I'm tired of being sick and having to lay around in bed all the time." His voice dropped to a mutter. "I'd almost _rather_ be at the Dursleys."

"Almost?" Snape asked with an arched eyebrow.

Harry shrugged a shoulder and shook his head.

"This _wins _in your mind?" The man snorted. "There is something wrong with your head, Potter."

Looking down at his hands – still purple – Harry tried to ignore the potions master.

"I guess that much was a given before the summer even started. You do seem to have a penchant for putting your life in danger."

"I do not," Harry muttered.

Snape coughed in a _really?_ type manner. "You've gone after the Dark Lord twice now in less than two months. Beyond the sheer arrogance of the matter, if that's not a good attempt at suicide, I'm not sure what it is."

Harry shot him a glare. "It's not like I _knew_ who he was the first time. I thought… and then this time, I didn't know what to do! I didn't _want_ to… It just…" Huffing out a breath, Harry crossed his arms over his chest and settled for glowering at a wall. "Things just happen sometimes," he whispered.

The door to the hospital wing opened quietly, Headmaster Dumbledore slipping into the room. His purple robes seemed to sparkle with stars, glittering against the white walls. "And how are we doing?" he said with a smile.

Harry thought the smile looked a little forced. He shrugged again and picked at the sheets of his bed. "Fine," he said softly.

"We were discussing Mr. Potter's latest suicide attempt," Snape said darkly. "To which his answer is 'things just happen sometimes'." The man's Harry impression was remarkably inaccurate and whiny, making Harry wince.

"Severus," Dumbledore chided with a smile, "you have a better understanding of why things _must _happen to Harry than most."

"Sybil's _little hobby_ has nothing to do with his overconfident abuse of-"

"Enough, Severus." This time, authority had snuck into the man's voice. Even the flickering magical lights in the hospital wing seemed to dim slightly, cowed at the command. Harry found himself looking down, feeling hesitant and regretful for something he hadn't even done. "I fully realize you do not believe in Sybil's _little hobby_, as you so delightfully put it, but that doesn't stop things from being set in motion. Harry has little control over certain aspects of his life."

Snape let out a grumbling noise and sat up a bit straighter in his bed. But the effect of his attempted show of defiance was destroyed by the pink polka dots on his face and the trembling of his body as he tried to sit up without help. Finally he just collapsed back against he pillows and sighed. "What is it you want, Headmaster?"

"Information, mostly." Dumbledore turned his smile onto Harry. "Are you tired of lying in bed yet, Harry?"

Harry smiled back and nodded. "I'd rather be almost anywhere," he admitted.

"I expect," Dumbledore commiserated, sitting down in the bedside chair. His blue, twinkling eyes fixed on Harry's, he asked, "I'm going to need you to tell me what has been happening in this school. Certain facts are not lining up properly."

Harry glanced at Snape – who glowered back at him – and he nodded. "Okay…"

"Where is the Sorcerer's Stone?"

That got both Snape and Harry to blink and sit upright. Snape spoke first. "It's _missing_?" The man had paled to nearly the color of the sheets. "Do you have any idea-"

Dumbledore held up a hand, quietly asking for time to explain. "I need to fully understand the timeline of events before I come to any conclusions. If you please…?"

Harry's mouth opened and words tumbled out. "But doesn't Snape – Professor Snape – need to keep drinking the Elixir now? Or he'll die? And if the Stone is missing-"

He got two looks. One was a rather blank, dumbfounded look from Snape, the other was an almost delighted smile from the headmaster. "You researched the Stone more than I had thought," Dumbledore praised softly. He reached out and patted Harry's arm. "Your concern for Severus is a great asset, Harry. Don't lose that."

"It takes dozens of doses to become fully addicted," Snape added blandly, "not just one. I have no intention of drinking any more and Madame Pomfrey has me on a medical regime to cover any side effects."

Glancing at the potions master, Harry caught the quiet lack of insult in that statement, realizing it was probably the closest thing the man would even come to praising or thanking. He snorted softly and shook his head, at a loss by this new piece of information about the strange professor.

"Now. A timeline?" Dumbledore requested.

Snape started the story with a dark sigh. "I was trying to find the correct potion to dismantle the thing. I thought I had it, but the potion was sabotaged before I could finish it and test it. It created a Leaching Fog as well as a rather large explosion."

"Thus the destroyed piece of my castle."

Harry fought down a grin at the quiet chide in the headmaster's voice.

"Apparently," Snape snapped. "I took the Stone with me when we evacuated, obviously. When it became apparent the Dark Lord had come back to Hogwarts, I attempted to take Mr. Potter and leave the building. But the wards were closed by that point. And then Mr. Potter decided to _run away_."

"I did not," Harry shot back. "Voldemort told me-"

"_Told_ you? You _listened_ to what the darkest lord of our generation said and _believed him_?" Snape was incredulous. "You have less sense-"

"But I thought-"

"Boys," Dumbledore broke in. A restless quiet filled the hospital wing. "Harry, what did Voldemort tell you?"

Harry caught the shudder that ran through Snape's body at the name. Feeling more than a bit vindictive at the moment, Harry emphasized his first word. "_Voldemort_ said he was going to possess Professor Snape and then steal the stone. And then possess me."

Snape glanced at him, then looked away.

"And why did you run away?" Dumbledore asked softly.

Harry shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what a possessed person looks like. I thought, maybe…"

"I told you it is nearly impossible to possess someone who is unwilling," Snape muttered. Then his face went empty again and he said, very quietly, "Unless that someone falls into a Leaching Fog, apparently."

Harry stared down at the white sheets of his bed, not knowing what to say.

"What happened next?" Dumbledore finally asked.

"I trailed Potter through the school, knowing that the Leaching Salve would kick in eventually and the boy would be comatose. Eventually I found him, but apparently the Dark Lord was waiting." Snape's voice stopped. "Potter will have to pick it up from here, as I don't remember what happened after-" he cut off in the middle of his sentence.

There was the sound of rustling sheets, perhaps Dumbledore quietly comforting the uptight man. "Harry?"

"I knew Professor Snape still had the Stone," Harry said. "And when Voldemort looked at me, he saw where the Stone was – that Snape still had it. He bound me up with ropes and then made the Elixir. He said it needed to be made in a golden cup, otherwise it wouldn't work." Harry glanced up and saw Dumbledore nod. "He drank it and as going to kill me. Quickly, he said, because I'd helped so much." Harry's voice was raw and sour. "So I stuffed a handful of aconite down his throat." He glanced towards his professor. "Sorry."

"Aconite," Snape whispered. He slowly nodded, a look of understanding flicking on his face. "You picked it up from my lab."

Harry looked away again. "I didn't want to hurt you, but…"

"I would rather have died than be a puppet," Snape said in a firm tone. "But why aconite? There are plenty of poisons that work much faster than aconite."

"The book you gave me said aconite would work best."

Dumbledore made a surprised little sound. "You let Harry borrow one of your books?" The man arched a white eyebrow, his blue eyes twinkling as Snape glowered and stared out the window. "Your precious collection you make the rest of us sign in blood for?"

"He was driving me insane," Snape snarled. "I gave him the damn book to distract him from the endless pestering."

"Of course," Dumbledore soothed. "Of course. Harry, what happened to the Stone after that?"

Harry was quiet, thinking. "I don't really know," he finally admitted. "It was in the cup, but that got dropped when the aconite started making him react. I don't remember Voldemort picking it up…"

Dumbledore let out a soft sound. "The Stone is no longer within the walls of Hogwarts," he finally admitted. "I was hoping your story would play out differently."

"It's _missing_," Snape said sourly. His skin was pale even as he sat on the bed, still and calm. "Do you happen to know where the Dark Lord is now?"

"Romania," Dumbledore answered after a brief pause. "At least, that's what my sources are telling me. There was a sighting the day before yesterday."

The silence that fell through the hospital wing was tense and full. Harry found himself staring into the shadows, remembering that Voldemort had reportedly been in Romaina _before_, only to show up at Hogwarts.

"He might come back then," Harry asked when it seemed like nobody was going to say anything.

"No, Harry," Dumbledore said with a reassuring smile. "He won't."

Snape snorted and added. "There isn't a reason for him to return at the moment. Other places hold the keys to his return to power – not Hogwarts." The man fixed a glare at the headmaster. "Unlike last time when I _informed_ you."

"Yes, Severus, the world is very clear in hindsight." Dumbledore got to his feet with a nod to both men. "I will leave you to your rest before Poppy throws me from the room."

Harry watched Dumbledore sweep from the room, leaving the two sick patients to their silence. "But he will come back," Harry whispered to himself. He found himself glancing at the potions master.

"Someday," Snape answered before rolling over onto his side, facing away from Harry, and seemingly going to sleep.

Quietly sinking back into his pillows, Harry stared at the ceiling. Then he reached over to the bedside table and picked up the creased and magic-less picture of his mother, still beaming at him and frozen mid-wave. He brushed at the paper, smoothing it out somewhat, before carefully tracing the lines of her face.

Picture resting against his chest, Harry stared around the tiny hospital wing. Shadows lurked in the corners, only momentarily driven away by the brightness of the light. The battle was won.

But not the war.

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**To be continued...**


	17. Chapter 16: Secrets of Old Friends

**As most of you figured out, the previous chapter (15) was supposed to be the original end of this story. Dumbledore threw my story for a loop when the Stone went missing. Thus these extra chapters. We must save the Stone!  
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**The story may change to Friday updates, as I've picked up a second (third?) job on Saturdays.  
**

**Thank you to Random Flyer, ThreeMoons3, ennoi deMorte, SnapesYukuai, GOKOA, Aerois, MsFrizzle, Nightshade's sydneylover150, saggyherman, Akatsuki's Foxy Musician, ADakaJMJD, almightyswot, EbonyWing, Nefari, Zireal07, snapemartyr, snape4life26, dreamstar potter, frodothejedi, notwritten, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, Sapphire Gray Black, BlackRoseDecending, CastlePhoenix, irezel, GinaStar, and JulieSnape02 for the awesome reviews!**

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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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After Madam Pomfrey pushed another vial of the mud-flavored potion down Harry's throat, she set his dinner in front of him with a stern smile. Harry shot her a bit of a grin and sat up, rearranging the tray so it was angled just right. He leaned forward to smell the warm mashed potatoes and the thick roll sitting next to it. A mug of hot chocolate completed the tray.

His snarky potions professor didn't fare nearly as well. He didn't have the strength to sit up on his own, so the mediwitch had to force him to suffer through the humiliation of being _helped_. Harry fought down a smirk at the man's indignant looks and kept himself busy buttering his roll.

When the mediwitch finally left the two of them alone – Harry noticed she hadn't stayed around to watch Snape drink his potions, just left them on the tray – Harry pulled the old photograph out of his pocket and set it next to him on the tray. His mother smiled at him, frozen in time now that the purple fog had destroyed the magic.

There was quite literally nothing he could do about Lord Voldemort at the moment. The spirit wasn't in the school and was most likely not even in the country. That left him with little else to think about. The photograph sat there, needing answers. Glancing quickly at Snape, he tapped his finger against the side of his fork, trying to think through what to say.

He couldn't look directly at the man when he finally got up the nerve to say the words that he'd been wanting to say since he'd found this photograph. Instead, he focused on mushing around the gravy with his fork. "You knew my mother."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Snape hesitate, then slowly put a spoon into his mouth. When finished with the bite, Snape deliberately set the spoon onto the tray and let his hand rest in his lap. There wasn't any sound in the hospital wing until Snape gave a quiet, "Yes."

Harry ran his finger around the edge of the cup of hot chocolate, watching the little remains of the marshmallows swirl in tiny eddies. "What was she like?"

"I doubt I have anything to add to the stories you've heard," he said.

There was something strange in Snape's voice that Harry hadn't ever heard before. He actually looked up at the man, studying the way his black hair fell around his face, attempting to decide if pushing the issue would get him in trouble. Finally, he came to the conclusion that Snape couldn't even sit upright, much less punish him for a few questions. "You were her friend?"

Black eyes cut to his, a scowl forming on his face. "You disapprove?"

"Why do you _do _that?" Harry asked, setting his mug of hot chocolate on his tray with a clatter. Liquid splattered on his hand and Harry hissed, rubbing the small burns against his shirt.

"Do what?" The eyes narrowed.

"Instantly believe that anything I say is an insult?" Harry glared right back.

Snape seemed to miss a beat with that question. He blinked once, twice, and then looked away. "I told you. You are the physical embodiment of everything I have ever hated and-"

"I don't know what that means." Harry crossed his arms, settling against the pillows, unwilling to take his glare away from the back of Snape's head.

The potions professor apparently decided to stop answering questions. He picked his spoon back up, and went back to slowly, deliberately eating his supper. Spoonfuls of mashed potatoes were followed by careful sips of his own mug of hot chocolate.

Minutes passed. Then more minutes. Harry found himself looking away, simply because he found himself stymied for what to do. It wasn't like he could _demand_ answers from his professor.

With almost jerky movements, he reached out and grabbed his spoon, getting a mouthful of mashed potatoes. They were starting to cool down, becoming sticky.

A thought crossed his mind that perhaps the man didn't want to talk about his mother because it hurt. Maybe that was the strange note to his voice – pain after all these years. Perhaps that had something to do with why he treated Harry so oddly.

He looked at Snape out of the corner of his eye as the words slowly wormed their way out of his mouth. "My mother was a freak. She married a horrible man that got her drunk and pregnant. They died in a terrible car crash – slowly and painfully – and deserved every minute of it."

The man wasn't moving. He'd obviously listened, as he was just sitting there, not doing anything. Thinking of what to yell, probably.

"That's the only story I've ever heard about my mother," Harry continued, putting another spoonful of potatoes into his mouth and pretending to be uncaring about the conversation. In reality, his stomach was twisting itself in knots so badly he couldn't imagine eating anymore food. "I mean, other than the _true_ story of how she died. But that's really all I hear about her. How she died." He set the spoon down and decided to stab the knife even deeper into Snape's ribs. "I was just thinking that maybe you knew her. Maybe I could hear a happy story. For once."

Harry picked up the roll and forced himself to continue eating, trying not to pay any attention to the man sitting still in the bed next to him. The roll was gone, as well as most of the rest of his meal, before a voice broke the silence.

"What makes you think I was her friend?"

Loathe to turn over his found picture, Harry simply held it up for Snape to see. The man's eyes narrowed, but then he closed his eyes and shook his head. He made a faint movement with his hands, like he was going to do something with them, but let them drop back onto the bed.

He didn't say anything.

One of the little house elves appeared to whisk away the remains of their dinners and Snape still hadn't spoken. Madame Pomfrey came from her office and checked up on them, studying their eyes and reapplying the pink lotion to Snape's skin, and the man still didn't speak.

When the lights went out, Harry curled up on his side and fell asleep, leaving the man staring into the darkness.

Silent.

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...

The next day, after yet another dose of that horrible muddy medication, Harry was allowed out of bed. Under the close supervision of Madam Pomfrey, Harry slowly trekked his way from one side of the hospital wing to the other. He barely made it back to his bed before he collapsed into it. The mediwitch bustled around him a few minutes, waving her wand around him and muttering to herself before announcing that Harry could get up and move around, just so he stopped when he got tired.

Without any hesitation, Harry had nodded an eager agreement. Even if he couldn't leave the hospital wing, at least he could move to a new bed – perhaps one further away from his silent co-patient. As she went back to her office, she pushed open one of the windows.

A snowy bird fluttered through within seconds, swooping towards Harry and landing on the back of the chair beside his bed. "Hedwig," Harry said happily, reaching out to carefully run a finger through her beautiful feathers. "I'm really glad to see you."

The owl made a cooing noise, accepting the caresses before holding out her leg. A note was attached.

With a grin, Harry untied the note. One hand still running through soft feathers, Harry unfolded the parchment and scanned over the letter.

_Harry. Why would give greasy Snape the Stone anyways? He's probably using it to live forever. You have GOT to steal it from him and give it to someone who really will destroy it. Maybe hit it with a brick or something. Mom says there's something going on with Hogwarts – she hasn't been able to floo-call anyone to see if you'll be coming to our house after you're feeling better. No doubt Snape is blocking the floo system somehow. Write back. Ron._

Setting the letter aside, Harry dusted his fingers over Hedwig's soft feathers one last time. "Why don't you go up to the Owlery and get something to eat?"

Hedwig preened a few times and then leaned forwards to pull at Harry's hair. "Yes, I'll be careful," Harry told her with a smile. "No more evil Dark Lords. At least until after my birthday. I promise."

The owl seemed to take his promise, turning and spreading her wings. Within seconds, she had swooped back out the window into the clear, summer morning. Harry watched her go with a light heart, wishing he could join her in floating through the sky.

"Letter from your relatives?"

Harry started at the sound of his professor's voice. He jerked his head to look at the man, who wasn't even looking in Harry's direction. A patch of the ceiling had his complete and utter attention. "No… from Ron."

"Ah, from your fan club."

"Ron's my friend," Harry said softly. "He wants me to spend some time at his house when I'm feeling well again."

Snape continued to stare at the ceiling. "You realize this… issue… with the Dark Lord has pushed back your release date considerably."

Harry's head tipped to the side as he thought through Snape's bland words. "I figured. But they can't keep me in here all summer."

"It is nearly July," the man said. "After suffering another reaction and then being doused in Leaching Salve, the headmaster will undoubtedly insist upon you remaining at Hogwarts until the end of July for observation. Several more weeks."

An unconscious smile flickered across Harry's face. "So… I'd just have to figure out where to go in August."

Snape turned his head to stare at Harry. "Apparently."

Carefully getting to his feet, Harry worked his way around the edge of his bed until he was sitting facing his potions professor. "So why am I the physical embody or something?"

The man closed his eyes and shook his head. "After destroying that phrase to the point of nonsense, how do you expect me to answer it?"

Harry's fingers tightened around the edge of his bed. The sheets were cool and crisp, the warm sunshine worming through the windows and making the whole room glow. "But you know what I meant."

"I disliked your father."

Harry, stunned by the sudden answer, waited a beat before trying to work through that one. "He was a student of yours?"

Snape scowled and worked his way into a seated position. "We are approximately the same age, Potter. We went to school together." The dark eyes were cold and piercing. "We disliked each other."

Harry blinked a few times, tilting his head to the side. "So… you don't like me because of my father." Words that Snape had repeated a number of times floated through his head and he pieced them together into a slow sentence. "Because he was arrogant and overconfident. You think I act like him."

"You do." Snape glared at him.

"But I never knew him. He died when I was one-"

"Genetics conquers all, apparently," Snape said harshly. "You act just like a miniature James Potter, twenty years later."

Running a hand through his hair, Harry let out a soft sigh. "What did my mother act like?" Harry found himself crossing his fingers – a 'silly muggle tradition', he'd been told – and hoping the man wouldn't descend into another bout of silence.

Unfortunately, Snape pressed his lips together. Quiet stretched for along time before the snarky potions professor took a breath and let it out in a sigh. "She was very different. Compassionate. Flashy anger, but quick to get over things. Tried to solve all the world's wrongs before she was fifteen." His voice grew harsh. "She was not a freak or drunk. And certainly didn't die in a car wreck."

"I know," Harry said softly, carefully storing every one of Snape's words into memory. "But that's just all I've ever been told."

"Who told you idiotic lies like that?" Snape's fingers had curled into fists in the sheets.

Harry shrugged and looked away. A bird soared out amongst the clouds. "My relatives, I guess. They don't like magic much."

Snape snorted, but he didn't say anything more.

Finally Harry looked back, but the professor seemed to have fallen asleep. Harry let a small smile flicker onto his face. "Thanks," he murmured.

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**To be continued...**


	18. Chapter 17: Flower Spells

**Happy Birthday to me. :)  
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**Thank you to Wilona Riva, PrussianKnight9, notwritten, snapemartyr, Sammy Ocean, IceDragon19, SnapesYukuai, almightyswot, CastlePhoenix, Thatsallwegot, starsinjars, harrypotterfan14, Ritsuka Shin, saggyherman, Zireael07, Anisney-Robin, Anne Camp aka Obi-Quiet, Nightshade's sydneylover150, MrsNevilleLongbottom0971, seeker614, Garniella, GinaStar, irezel, and frodothejedi for the awesome reviews!**

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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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The next few days were bored and blurry messes of white walls, medication, and trying to cajole more information out of the cranky man lying in the next bed over. Harry had succeeded in learning almost nothing – Snape shut down more quickly than even his aunt when talking about his mother. The only thing Snape liked to talk about less than Harry's mother was Voldemort.

Unfortunately, Harry's mind seemed to stuck in only two ruts: his mother and Voldemort were all he could think about.

His trips out of bed got longer and longer by the day, even managing to escape the hospital wing at one point. Harry kept it slow and easy – as he'd promised – as he made his way through the castle. He stopped at the large picture of the card table. Several people were sitting around the table, cards in hand, but none of them were making the loud, boisterous comments Harry was used to. One just looked at him and then looked away.

And there it was. The spot on the floor where Snape had lain and almost died. The spot where Harry had stood. The spot where Voldemort had cast the killing curse. Harry's eyes drew almost instinctively to the still-glowing burn mark on the castle wall. Shadows curled around the spot, moving like strange creatures against the wall.

He stepped closer. Held up a hand. Inches before touching the darkened scorch mark, Harry stopped. His hand was burning from the energy trapped in the wall. It almost felt like the wall would be hot when touched. The shadows reached out claw-like hands to grab at his fingers.

Slowly he let his hand drop and took a few steps backwards. A shudder ran through his body and Harry quickly turned and scurried down the hallway.

Most of the portraits had been returned to their original form, the people back inside their frames. The suits of armor were standing upright again, their unseeing eyes taking in everything that happened before them. Many even looked like they'd been newly polished, the metal shining silver in the light.

He found himself standing in front of Snape's apartment. His feet had directed him here and he stared at the empty hole with a rather dismal feeling lodged in the pit of his stomach. He crept up to the hole and peered inside, startled to see things already being cleaned and returned to normal.

"Harry. Nice to see you up and about."

Harry turned to glance at Headmaster Dumbledore. The man's robes were red today and covered with what seemed to be golden fish. "Good morning, Headmaster."

"Come to look at the damage?"

"I didn't realize it was already getting fixed," Harry answered softly. "Are the… house elves… working on it?"

Dumbledore smiled broadly. "For the most part, yes. There are many things even their clever fingers cannot fix, however. I have been doing my best to return poor Severus' home to its former glory. I'm afraid I'll have to tell him most of his potion stores have been irreparably damaged."

Harry winced. "I don't look forward to seeing his reaction to that."

"I think he already knows, Harry, my boy. He is simply not looking forward to the confirmation of his fears."

Harry shook his head and looked through the hole again. The couch he'd fallen asleep on more than once was tinged purple, despite the look of at least a few good cleanings. Most of the books were back on the bookshelves. The kitchen had been straightened and cleaned up, most of the shattered things already repaired and set back in their rightful places.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dumbledore take out his wand and wave it. The kitchen table turned itself upright. The four small, broken chairs rose into the air, seemed to fix themselves, and then seated themselves around the table. "Come, Harry. We need to talk and you need to give your legs a rest." Dumbledore placed a hand gently on Harry's back and directed them both to the table.

"Voldemort's not back again, is he?" Harry whispered, the blood draining from his face as he took one of the offered chairs.

Dumbledore smiled and shook his head. "No, Harry, he is not. Voldemort was dealt two very harsh blows inside of two months. He has some wound-licking and rethinking to do before he comes anywhere near you again." Sitting down carefully, Dumbledore folded his hands on the tabletop. "It appears that Voldemort had been using Professor Quirrel to set up this elaborate plan – even to coordinate everyone being out of the castle except for Professor Snape. You were the wrinkle in his very well-thought-out plan."

Harry stared down at his fingers. "Yeah," he muttered. His mind fled back to memories of how easily he was manipulated into leaving Snape, going to find the Stone, and even getting Snape to leave the relative safety of the fog.

"You are not to find fault in your actions," Dumbledore said firmly. "Voldemort has a mind for planning that has taken hundreds of extremely intelligent people by surprise. You performed admirably."

With a shrug, Harry looked away. He caught sight of one of the house elves moving a few things around down the hallway. The creature looked up at him and vanished. "But he's really gone this time. For awhile, anyways."

"Yes, Harry." Dumbledore smiled benignly. "Thanks to you, he is gone for quite a while. Which brings me to why I came hunting you down." He leaned forwards, his blue eyes twinkled. "I find myself needing to find a way to thank you for what you have done. To commend you for a service beyond your years."

Harry blinked and stared at him dumbfounded. "Me?"

Dumbledore arched an eyebrow. "Yes, you. You have prevented Lord Voldemort from coming back to power twice in two months. A small token of gratitude is certainly not too much to give in exchange."

"But I…" Harry trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't need anything. I'm not a hero, I'm just Harry."

The smile on Dumbledore's face grew a bit. "Yes, you are," he said softly. "And that's what makes you so special."

Harry sent a dubious look in Dumbledore's direction. "If you say so, Headmaster."

"Perhaps a new broom." Dumbledore tilted his head a bit. "Or some tickets to a Quidditch match later this summer? I'm sure your friend Mr. Weasley would love to accompany you."

"I don't…" Harry paused, looking around the apartment. Suddenly his mind caught on the one thing he wanted more than anything. He tried to not let the desire show through on his face too much as he said, "Maybe, instead, I can stay here? At Hogwarts?"

"Yes, through your birthday. I talked with Poppy this morning and she is willing to release you so you'll be home with your family for your birthday." Dumbledore nodded. "But that's because you are ill, my boy. It's not because-"

"I mean, after that," Harry cut in. "Like, stay at Hogwarts all summer." He held his breath, crossing his fingers under the table.

Dumbledore was already shaking his head. "Hogwarts is not set up for students over the summer holidays, Harry. We talked about this already."

"But then can I go to Ron's instead? The Burrow? I can spend the last month of summer there…" Harry found himself pleading, hoping, wishing.

Sighing, but never letting the smile slip from his face, Dumbledore said, "Your family is missing you. Don't you want to go home for at least a few weeks?"

Harry shook his head. "They probably love the fact that I'm gone. Please, Headmaster? Ron's mom already said it was okay."

Dumbledore reached forwards to pat Harry's hand. "I'm sure you're exaggerating, my boy. But you must return to your family in August. There are many reasons."

"But I-"

"We'll see about getting you some Quidditch tickets. That will make for a fun afternoon." The headmaster was already getting to his feet.

Harry stumbled up after him, determined to not let this die. Here was his chance to get away from his relatives. "I don't-"

"Have a nice rest of your morning, Harry." Then the man was gone. Just seemed to vanish in front of Harry's eyes.

Harry stood still for a long few seconds before slumping back into the kitchen chair. He crossed his arms, set them on the table, and then perched his chin on top. He sat there for a long time before he got up and made his way slowly back to the hospital wing. He made sure to stop at the top of the astronomy tower and the Owlery - two points on opposite ends of the castle - on the way.

"Just in time, Mr. Potter," the mediwitch greeted. "Your lunch arrived."

"Thanks," he said softly as he took the tray and carried it over to his bed. He wasn't feeling especially hungry and the smell of the stew was making his stomach churn.

Snape glanced up from his own lunch. The boils were almost gone. Only a few pink spots remained. "Enjoying your ambulatory abilities?" the man drawled.

Anger sparked inside of Harry's heart. He wasn't sure where it had come from, but he didn't have the desire to fight it. He set the tray down on the bedside table with a bit more force than necessary and snapped, "I went to see your potions lab. It's completely destroyed."

The man blinked. "I heard."

Harry flung himself into his bed and pulled the covers over his head, not even bothering to take off the silly hospital slipper-shoes he'd been given to wear. Safe in the warm darkness of his bed, Harry found himself curling his hands into angry fists and burying his head in his pillow.

He'd only prevented the darkest lord of this generation from coming to power. And _one month_ away from his bloody relatives was apparently too much to ask in return.

Tears stained his pillow, although whether they were from anger or sadness Harry didn't know. When the mediwitch came to see if he was alright, Harry feigned being asleep. To his surprise, his greasy potions master backed that up with a quiet explanation that Harry had seemed tired, and he was left alone.

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Voldemort was back. The _thing_ stood over him as suddenly as a bolt of lightning, white hands bony and grasping from the shadowy mist that was his cloak. Harry felt his heart nearly stop in his chest, squeezing in a painful burst, as he flung himself from the hospital bed.

Feet tangling in the sheets, Harry tripped and found himself sprawled on the floor. Painful welts were appearing all over his hands and arms, leaving him helpless and trembling. His legs weren't responding to his commands. His arms were starting to feel like gelatin.

"Potter…" the thing whispered. He could feel Voldemort's breathe on the back of his neck, tickling his ear as the spirit crouched low. "Harry Potter."

His mouth wasn't working. All he could do was gasp for air and feel the sharp stabs of pain as his fingernails dug into the ancient floorboards of the hospital wing.

"You are mine."

Mist – dark as night and cold as ice – swirled around his face. Harry closed his eyes and mouth, squeezed them shut, but he could feel the gunk climbing up his nose. It touched the back of his throat, feeling like he was swallowing half-frozen hand lotion, and he couldn't help the cough.

The second his mouth was open, fog rushed in. His eyes flew open in terror, red sparkling at the edges of his vision. This time when Voldemort spoke, it was from inside of him.

"I am in you, Harry Potter. I am _part_ of you."

He could feel his mouth moving, making the words. Feel the vibrations of his throat as the air was forced from his lungs. Only watch helplessly as his hand moved to grab his wand, a strange spell ending the immobility. Tremble as his mouth stretched into an insane grin.

His scar _burned_. Somewhere, someone was screaming. Green light.

His body got to its feet, images of power and strength flooding into his conscious mind. He dreamed of torturing his hapless and sick potions professor. Of killing Headmaster Dumbledore and reanimating him as an inferi. Of watching his loyal minions tremble at his feet as he unleashed the consequences of ten years of ignoring his presence.

Screaming, kicking, shoving, throwing his mental self from side to side did nothing. Voldemort just started the laugh. A crazy, guttural, slithering sound.

Black rushed into the corners of his eyes. Harry knew Voldemort was in control. Would be forever. The world was lost and Harry could do nothing.

And all the man could do was laugh.

...

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...

Harry jolted awake under the sheets of the hospital bed and sat up with a shout. The warm quilt fell away and he looked around wildly, seeing nothing but the warm afternoon sunshine and the strange glint in his potion master's eyes. Slowly he felt his heart slow down. He sank back against the pillow, shaking his head.

A dream. A nightmare.

Breath trailed out of his lungs in a really long, slow breath. He let his eyes fall closed, allowing himself to relax in the comforting quiet of the hospital wing. There was no Voldemort in the school. Dumbledore was here, there was no way Voldemort would come back. He was safer here than he would be anywhere else.

"Nightmare?" His professor's voice was still hoarse and rough.

Harry glanced over at him, noting the dark glint to the man's eyes. He shrugged and looked away, choosing to study the green trees in the distance through the window. Snape had spent the better part of their days together in the hospital wing either ignoring him or explaining exactly why and how Snape hated him. Detailing a dream to the man was incredibly low on his list of things he wanted to do.

"Your head of house sent me a letter," the man continued. He sounded very hesitant to be saying anything. "She wanted me to watch you for signs of emotional trauma."

Harry couldn't help the quick glance. Snape was sitting upright, fingering a bit of parchment with his fingers. In fact, the man seemed overly focused on it, his eyes firmly fixed on the corner he was worrying. "I'm not…" Harry trailed off, not quite sure what he was fighting against. "Emotionally traumatized," came out slowly and unsure.

The man sighed and shook his head, his eyes not looking up. "Of course not. You only went face to face with the Dark Lord. Twice."

Harry glared, but the effect was dimmed since Snape didn't look up to see it. The look faded almost completely when Harry realized Snape was deciding whether or not to send a note to Professor McGonagall. A tongue came out to lick at his lips as pictures of his slightly-overprotective Head of House drifted into his mind. The woman would undoubtedly hover. Probably smother. And then insist on that 'mental health' thing Harry had barely dodged the last time around.

Slowly, Snape set the letter aside and glanced up at him. An eyebrow arched, probably from the look on Harry's face.

"I'll be fine," Harry tried to assure him. "It was just a dream."

"Yes," Snape said. The man tipped his head to the side and studied Harry closely. "Of course."

Harry let out a breath, shaking off the last bits of his dream and slung his legs over the side of his bed. He'd never bothered to kick of his slipper-shoes in the anger of crawling into bed, so they were still on his feet when he went to stand up. That was where he hesitated.

He had no particular desire to go anywhere. His adventurous streak had been pretty thoroughly collapsed with his meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore. That, and he had no wish to walk past the spot where he'd almost died.

But the idea of staying in the hospital wing was incredibly nerve-wracking. Whatever sudo-demi-relationship he thought he'd formed with the snarky potions professor while in his care over the last few weeks had evaporated. The man had admitted to hating him and being unable – unwilling – to see past it. The thought of sitting here next to him, in this white sterile environment, made Harry's head spin.

Besides, now that the man was supposedly watching for 'emotional trauma', Harry had even less of a desire to spend any more time than absolutely necessary in his company.

Finally, Harry pushed himself completely to his feet and started to make his way back out the door. His hand touched the doorknob, feeling the cold of the metal.

"You really do have your mother's eyes."

Harry didn't turn the doorknob. He didn't turn around. He just stood perfectly still, waiting. Even his heart seemed to have stopped for a moment, waiting, hoping, wishing for more.

"She loved Charms more than any other class. She grew up in a muggle family, so to her, that was the quintessential magic, and you should have seen the way her eyes shone when she was in Charms."

A small chill ran up his arms. Gooseflesh prickled the back of his neck. He fought the desire to close his eyes and imagine her, sitting in Charms class, probably with the same kind of glitter in her eye that Hermione got when learning some new spell.

"There was this one time – I think it was during our second year – that she learned how to conjure flowers. She spent the better part of the spring making these bouquets that she gave out to anyone who showed any interest in having one. She had pretty much the entire school decorated by the time Easter came around."

Snape's voice was bland and empty, but Harry caught just the smallest bit of nostalgia, the curl of a smile, the wistfulness of remembrance in the man's voice.

Harry swallowed hard. The doorknob was cold under his fingers. When the silence seemed to stretch on for far too long, Harry felt the grip of disappointment in his heart and turned the knob. The door creaked open.

"The charm is _Floris Lilium_, Mr. Potter. A soft swirl with a flick at the end. I expect you not to abuse it."

Taking a second to glance over his shoulder, Harry saw that Snape wasn't even looking at him. The man was holding a small flower in his hand, running his fingers over the soft petals. The flower, if Harry was not mistaken, was a lily.

Knowing that nothing more was coming, Harry slipped from the room and let the door fall shut behind him. He stood there for a moment, allowing the story and the moment to seep into his memory, before heading down the hallway. He hurried past The Spot where he'd almost died, pointedly ignoring the dark shadows that crept out from the scorch mark on the wall to claw at his legs, and took the first set of stairs leading upwards. It took only minutes to reach the owlery.

White swirled down to meet him, Hedwig's soft feathers brushing his face and warm weight settling onto his shoulder. "Hey, girl," Harry whispered. He reached up to absently brush against her breast as he walked towards the edge of the tower.

He pulled himself up onto one of the ledges around the edge, settling himself down with his feet dangling into space. The sun glowed warm on his skin. A few clouds skittered across the sky, a gentle breeze pushing against his hair and the trees swaying slowly in the distance. His eyes closed, taking a moment to enjoy the simple warmth of the summer afternoon.

Nobody screaming for him to get back to work. Nobody giving him endless amounts of pointless chores to do. Nobody waiting in the bushes to jump out and ruin a potentially _okay_ afternoon.

He breathed in, breathed out, and then opened his eyes. His wand came out of his pocket. He rubbed it against the leg of his hospital pants a few times, still attempting to get rid of the faint purple tinge the wood had taken on. Then he held it up, focused, and gave the end a gentle swirl with a flick at the end. "_Floris Lilium._"

The flower was just like the one he'd seen Snape holding in the hospital. A white lily. Six perfect petals arranged in the circle with brown and yellow stamens in the center. A thick green stem held it up, beaming into the sunlight.

Harry brought the flower to his nose and breathed in the scent. "It's beautiful, isn't it, Hedwig?"

The owl pulled at a piece of his hair in agreement.

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**To be continued...**


	19. Chapter 18: Dealing with Ghosts

**Sorry this is a few days late, came down with a bad bout of the flu last week. Still struggling with it.  
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**Thank you to Ylterces A, mandaree1, Wilona Riva, MsFrizzle, LM Ryder, Ritsuka Shin, almightyswot, EbonyWing, Sammy Ocean, saggyherman, RebeliousOne, harrypotterfan14, Bonomania, Zireael07, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, hobesan, Anisney-Robin, Badbonita, notwritten, irezel, ThreeMoons3, GinaStar, and PrussianKnight9 for the awesome reviews!**

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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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The next dawned quiet and gloomy. On a normal misty, gray day without classes to get to, Harry wouldn't bother to get out of bed until absolutely necessary – and that usually meant waiting for hunger to drive him to eat lunch. Today, however, Harry was eager to be up and about as soon as he'd finished breakfast.

"Must you make such a racket?"

Harry shot a glance out of the corner of his eye at the man lying in the next bed over. Whatever had gotten into his potions master the previous day had obviously disappeared. Snape had a scowl fixed firmly on his face and a dark look lingering in the back of his eyes. The man was hunched over his toast and eggs, looking like the world was coming to an end. Harry made an attempt to eat a little more quietly. Not, in his mind, that he'd been eating loudly in the first place.

"Here you are!" came Madame Pomfrey's pleasant voice. She had a large smile on her face as she set the vial of potion down beside Harry's bowl of oats. She set another potion on Snape's tray. "Drink up, boys."

With a yank of the stopper, Harry set the vial to his lips and swallowed as quickly as possible. Shuddering at the muddy flavor, he scooped up the last of his oats, gave the mediwitch a smile, and slipped his shoes over his feet.

"Be back for lunch," the woman said as Harry practically raced for the door. "And stay in the castle."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry called back just as the door swung shut behind him. He hurried down the hallway, taking the first left, then a right, then two more lefts, then bounded up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. By the time he reached the top, he was out of breath and panting, the still-lingering weakness in his muscles making his legs ache.

Outside the tall, narrow windows, the gray sky led on to forever. The Forbidden Forest was a dark mass of shadows and fear. The Black Lake was living up to its name – a heavy abyss stretching into the distance.

Harry shuddered and moved on. The next hallway he took at a slower walk, getting his breath back under control, before stopping in front of a large portrait of a fat lady sitting in a chair. She was holding a little white flower in her hands. "Good morning," Harry said brightly.

The woman stared at him a second. "Good morning. Isn't it a bit early for students to be arriving?"

"I never left," Harry admitted. "I need to get into the tower. Can you let me in?"

Her eyes narrowed. "One does not admit errant students into the tower over the summer without the password."

"Bluebell?" Harry said, hoping that the password hadn't changed. There was something in the tower he desperately wanted to see.

The little smile on the fat lady's face told him all he needed to know. His heart had already dropped into his stomach when she started to speak. "The password has been changed, young man. If you want in, you'll need to ask for the new password."

Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants and let out a low sigh. "But McGonagall's not here, I can't ask her."

"_Deputy Headmistress_ McGonagall didn't change the password," the fat lady primped. "Professor Snape reset all the passwords."

Harry felt his heart drop a bit more. There was no way he was going to get a password out of his grumpy potions master. "Fine," he muttered, kicking the ground before turning to walk away.

Then he paused and dug his toe into the ground a moment, thinking. Turning around, he stared at the little white flower the fat lady was taking a moment to sniff. "Lily," he said suddenly.

The fat lady looked up startled, but shook her head. "It's not the password, young man. Good-"

"Lilium," Harry tried again, stubbornly, determined that he was on the right track with the flower.

"No. I don't-"

"_Floris_ _lilium_." Harry took a step forwards, feeling his heart beating in his chest. He knew – he _knew_ – that he was on the right track. Just like he'd _known_ the Sorcerer's Stone was going to be stolen. Things were clicking together in his brain, in his very soul, with a sharp clarity.

There was a dark set to the fat lady's lips as she nodded shortly. "Fine, but I hardly think _guessing_ a password gives you the right-"

"Professor Snape told it to me," Harry interrupted. "I just didn't know he was telling me a password. May I get in now?"

The fat lady made a coughing, tittering sound, but nodded again. His throat tightened as the portrait leading into Gryffindor Tower slowly swung open.

Harry quietly stepped over the threshold and into the empty tower. The fires were out and the windows were shut tight, giving the place a dark, cold air. Wind rattled one of the windows, a quick spray of rain pounded against the roof. "Hello?"

The call out into the nothingness was almost instinctive. He'd never seen the common room so devoid of any sign of life. Even when it was empty during the school year, little bits and pieces of its inhabitants were strewn everywhere. There were no sweaters hanging on the backs of chairs, no stray parchment littering the tables, no forgotten pillows huddled in corners near the fireplace. With the lack of fires and lights and the darkness outside, most of the light in the empty common room spilled in from the hallway behind him. The echoing silence after his call made him shudder. There was something inherently creepy about the tower with no people in it.

His feet slapped against the floorboards as he walked down the steps to the main level and made his way across the common room. He stopped near a collection of shelves, staring at the pictures carefully arranged on them.

Some of the pictures were incredibly old, but most were fairly recent. On many, the current students of Hogwarts shown through the glass. Studying, smiling, waving, holding up the house cup…

But Harry wasn't looking for pictures of people he knew. He was looking for a picture he'd seen and mostly ignored. A picture of a group of girls…

There it was. Harry grabbed the frame, plucking the picture off the shelf it had sat upon for a good twenty years. He took it over towards the still-open portrait hole. Settling down on the threshold, Harry stared at the picture.

On it, a group of girls were laughing and waving. Harry could see the rest of the common room spread around behind them. Flowers and bouquets covered every square inch of available space. The girls were wearing large buttons that flashed the words, "Flower Power" in various shades of pink. One of the girls had bright green eyes and flowing red hair.

Harry couldn't help the small, little smile that appeared on his face. "Mom," he whispered, eagerly studying her and the people she'd apparently called friends. Most of them were older than her – one even had a strong resemblance to Neville.

"It is summer holidays," came a hollow, echoing voice. "The one time of year I am not inundated with loud, living children."

Harry blinked and spun around, gazing in surprise at Sir Nickolas – Nearly Headless Nick – floating in the midst of the common room. It wasn't much of a surprise that the ghost was here, he _was_ the Gryffindor ghost, but Harry hadn't been expecting to see him in the tower during the summer. Despite the ghost's sad-sounding voice, there was a gentle smile on his face.

"What calls me here?" the ghost asked softly, 'walking' towards Harry and 'leaning' against the wall near the portrait hole.

With a shrug, Harry tucked the photograph of his mother into his pocket and stood up. "Thanks, for before. Guarding me when I was sick."

The ghost nodded slowly. "You are welcome. However, there was not much I could have done, had the Dark Lord chosen to attack."

Harry shook his head. "I'm not sure he was ever _going_ to attack."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"He couldn't really _do_ anything without help," Harry explained. "If I wouldn't have-"

"Stop." The ghost held out a hand, attempting to pinch together Harry's lips. This didn't work, of course, as Nearly Headless Nick's fingers simply went straight through Harry's mouth. The sudden chill of the feeling stopped Harry's words in their tracks. "It is not worth the effort to mentally construct all the 'what ifs'."

"What does that mean?"

Sir Nickolas smiled. "There are thousands upon thousands of options for how things could have turned out. Many things that could have gone differently. You could waste your life sitting around, attempting to figure out the best solution to the situation." The ghost crossed his arms over his chest. "But do you know what I've learned, young Potter?"

Harry shook his head.

"That even when you finally decide on the best course of action, it is too late. The deeds have been done. One cannot change the past."

Harry made a noise in the back of his throat and looked away. "Makes sense."

"However, I get the sense you are not overly wracked with guilt over what happened. So what really brings you to my quiet summer retreat?"

A smile quirked at the corner of Harry's mouth. "Summer retreat? You live here all year."

"Call it what you will," the ghost said, lifting his chin. "What brings you here?"

"There was something I wanted to find." Harry brushed the edge of the picture frame in his large pocket with his fingers, already trying to come up with a way to get the snarky man in the hospital wing to tell him more about it.

"The Stone, of course."

Harry's heart stopped. "What?" he whispered, his entire attention on the ghost.

The ghost blinked a few times. "Is that not what this whole endeavor has been about? The Sorcerer's Stone?"

A thousand replies raced through Harry's mind. The one that finally stumbled out of his mouth was, "You know where it is?"

"I have heard rumors of where the Stone might be. A puzzle, fit to be put together. Only the greatest of minds-"

"Where is it?" Harry interrupted. His hands were damp and sweaty, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Just then, a roll of thunder rumbled through the room. The storm was getting worse.

The ghost coughed importantly. "Well, it all starts several months ago. I talked to a house elf that witnessed Professor Quirrell giving an entire box of dungbombs to-"

Harry didn't need to listen to any more. His feet were already moving, sprinting down the hallway. The picture frame clattered against his leg with every step. Lightning flashed.

"Wait! I'm not done with the story!"

Pieces clicked together in his brain. He _knew_ who had taken the Stone. And he even knew why.

Down a flight of steps. Right turn, right turn, left, right. He burst into the hospital wing, gasping for air, his body sagging with relief at the ability to stop moving. "Mr. Potter," came the annoyed voice of his potions professor. "Must you-"

"Where's Professor Dumbledore?" Harry got out, stumbling towards the bed.

Snape glared at him from under the curtain of black hair, mouth set in a firm scowl. No doubt the interruption had dealt another blow to the man's foul mood. "Dealing with more important things, assuredly."

"I found out who's got the Stone."

Whatever the professor had been thinking, that sentence obviously derailed it. What little blood was coloring the man's pale skin drained away. His chin went up slightly. "Explain."

"I went to the Gryffindor common room to get a picture of my mother," Harry almost paused at the slight arch of the man's eyebrow, "and I saw Nearly Headless Nick."

"The ghost?" Snape asked. It was clear from the tone of his voice, what he thought of the Gryffindor spirit.

"Yup," Harry took a few deep breaths, still working on settling his heart rate. "And Nick said he saw Professor Quirrel giving dungbombs to Peeves." The professor's eyes narrowed, his lips disappeared into a thin line, already nodding along as Harry was talking. "Peeves made a deal with Quirrel. He's got the Stone."

Snape flung his covers away and pushed his legs over the side of the bed. Getting slowly to his feet – swaying slightly and having to hold on to the bed frame a moment – Snape straightened his back and pulled on his robe.

"No," came the voice of the mediwitch. "You are on strict bed rest-"

Snape waved his hand towards the door to Madam Pomfrey's office and the door slammed shut, locking itself from the outside. "Come along, Potter." The man let go of the bed frame and started a slow, deliberate walk towards the fireplace.

Harry felt a moment of being torn – being invited to go on what might be a dangerous adventure was both delightfully interesting and horrifyingly terror-filled – but his feet were already moving. He followed the slow-moving form of his professor towards the cheerily burning fire.

The man grasped a tin from the mantle and held out the tin towards Harry. It was filled with a black, soot-like powder. "What's that?" he finally had to ask, when Snape looked like he wasn't going to explain.

"Floo powder. We are going to the headmaster's office and I'm not going to walk the entire way. Hurry, boy."

Harry just blinked at him, edging slightly backwards at the dark sound in Snape's voice. "But…"

Snape just growled, grabbed a bit of powder, and tossed it into the flames. The flames roared upwards in a wave of green. Harry felt a strong hand grab his shoulder and push him into the fire. He pinwheeled his arms, but ended up thrust into the middle of the burning logs.

To his immense surprise, it didn't hurt. It tickled. Harry's nose crinkled, fighting down a sneeze. Outside the roar of the flames, he heard Snape's voice call out "Headmaster's Office."

And the world dissolved. Spun around and around in a mass of colors, Harry couldn't help the terrified yelp. He flung out his arms, only to find nothing to grab.

Then it stopped.

Suddenly he was sprawled on a hard, stone floor. A fire was crackling merrily behind him. He coughed, got to his hands and knees, looking around. Settling his glasses back firmly on his nose, Harry rubbed at the soot now covering his face and clothes.

Books covered every bit of shelving available. Small, fragile looking instruments dotted the glass cabinets – many of them spinning or smoking or swirling around in curls of magical light. A large desk sat in the middle of the circular room. Storm clouds gathered beyond the windows.

The fire roared behind him, then the sound of footsteps. "Must you sit _directly_ in front of the fire?" Snape drawled. "I thought your Highness had slightly more sense. Apparently I was mistaken."

Harry stumbled to his feet, still looking around the room in awe. He didn't notice Snape pull out his wand until the man had tapped the wand on the top of Harry's head with a sharp, "_Scourgify."_

Harry shuddered as magic whisked through his body. He glanced down at himself, noting that all the dark soot was gone. "Thanks," he said softly.

Snape made a noise in the back of his throat and walked stiff-legged towards the center of the room. "Headmaster," he called, settling heavily into one of the chairs. Harry trailed after, but didn't sit down.

There was no answer for the longest time. Harry started to shift, ready to head somewhere else to look for Dumbledore, but Snape seemed determined not to move. The man just continued to sit in the chair, hands folded neatly in front of him, staring at a massive amount of portraits hanging on the wall.

"To what do I owe the honor?"

Harry spun around at the sound of the headmaster's voice. Dumbledore was coming up a set of stairs, his blue eyes twinkling above his storm-gray robes. A calm sense of 'everything will be okay' settled into Harry's chest. He felt muscles in his shoulders relax slightly at the simple smile on the man's face.

"We have reason to believe Peeves is in possession of the Stone."

Dumbledore's smile faded slightly. "I came to that conclusion as well," he replied softly, making his way through the office. He stopped for a moment to squeeze Harry's shoulder. "How are you doing, Harry?"

"Fine," Harry said softly.

Dumbledore winked at him before moving around the desk to settle into his own chair. The old man picked up a tin of sweets and held them out. "You must be feeling better, Severus. Lemon drop?"

Harry could see Snape stiffen. "Now is not the time, Headmaster. We must deal with the Stone."

"Unfortunately, we have been unable to locate Peeves," Dumbledore said softly. "The poltergeist appears to have left the castle. I have every available person searching for any sign of him or the Stone."

"The Dark Lord-"

"Yes, of course," Dumbledore interrupted with a calm smile. "Unfortunately, there is not much that can be done at the moment."

"Headmaster-"

"Severus," Dumbledore said firmly. "You are still recovering. Until you are well, there is nothing more I can ask of you than to remain in the hospital wing under Poppy's care."

Harry tried his best not to look at the uptight form of his potions professor. He could only imagine the man's mindset at being chided like this in front of a student. And not just any student – Harry Potter. There were little fireworks of unhappiness bursting in Harry's stomach. The man would undoubtedly blame him.

"The Stone is under my care."

Harry arched an eyebrow at Snape's sharp tone, but didn't look up from where his hands were playing with the edge of the chair.

"_Harry_ is under your care," Dumbledore corrected smoothly. Harry knew the tone of voice Dumbledore was using. It clearly meant 'you can stop arguing, you will not win'.

"It was my charge to-"

"When the Stone is found, it will be returned to your care." Dumbledore stood up and folded his hands on his stomach. "I'm sure you will have found a suitable way to destroy it at that time. Until then, you are to return to the hospital wing. Thank you for informing me of your suspicions about Peeves."

A sharp crash of thunder rattled the room, making Harry jump.

Professor Snape glared and simmered. "You are most welcome," the man finally ground out. "Come along, Potter." Snape got to his feet and strode towards the fireplace, much more quickly and with more life than he'd moved before.

"Did you need something, Harry?" Dumbledore asked when Harry just stood there, watching.

He shook his head and turned to walk towards the fireplace as well. Professor Snape was already unscrewing the lid to the powder.

"Severus, I'm curious. Why did you bring Harry with?"

Snape gave a narrow-eyed glare as he held out the powder for Harry to take a pinch. "Have you seen the trouble this child gets into when left alone?"

The headmaster chuckled as Harry took a bit of the powder. He curiously tossed it into the fireplace, watching the flames turn from a glowing orange to a roaring green. He carefully stepped over the hearth, turned to glance at his potions professor, and said, "Hospital Wing."

The headmaster's office vanished in a whirl of color. Harry stumbled into the hospital wing when everything abruptly came to a standstill, ending up sprawled on his back. Madam Pomfrey helped him to his feet and quickly brushed the soot off his robe. Then she ordered him to bed with a dark look in her eyes.

Before he sat down, he took out the picture he'd found in the Gryffindor common room. He rubbed off a few sets of fingerprints and set it on the bedside table. Then he pulled off his shoes and settled back down on the bed, glancing out into the growing storm. Dark clouds were heavy in the sky, thick sheets of rain pouring down against the windows.

Curiously, it took several minutes for the snarky man to follow. When he stepped through, however, the mediwitch just folded her arms, raised her chin, and watched him carefully make his way back to his bed. She let out a huff of hair through her nose before turning to go back to her office.

The man shucked his robe, pulled the covers up to nearly his nose, and lay down with his back towards Harry. Harry sat there for a few minutes, running his fingers along the edge of the sheet. He had a rough idea how Snape felt – how many hundreds of times had he been dressed down in front of Dudley and his gang?

"Do you want to know what I went up to the common room to get?" Harry asked softly. It was soft enough that Snape could pretend to sleep through it.

"No."

With a glance towards the door to the office, Harry grabbed the picture and slipped from his bed. He crept around the bed so that he was standing near Snape. "I've walked past this picture a bunch of times, I just didn't know what it was about." He held out the frame.

Snape took it. The man gazed down at the group of girls, their smiling faces, and the hundreds of flowers scattered around the photograph. Then he looked up at Harry, blankly. "What is it you want?"

Harry shrugged and said, "Nothing. I just… I thought you'd want to see it."

The man handed it back. "Go to bed, Potter."

"It's not even lunch?" Harry tried, smiling just a touch.

There was a dark look on Snape's face. A flash of lightning lit his face oddly, making him look a bit like a monster, and Harry shook his head and crawled back into his own bed.

He set the picture back on the bedside table and fished out the Darke Creatures book. Even though it forced him to read every word and was filled with incredibly disturbing images, at least it was something to do.

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**To be continued...**


	20. Chapter 19: Lightning Strikes

**Sorry I skipped updating last week. I'm working 6 days a week (60+ hours) right now - _and_ I'm still not feeling well from my bout with the flu, which has now become a drag-out cold - so I'm dragging. My body has to catch up eventually. I spent most of my Sunday sleeping. It's 7pm and I just woke up... and am ready to go back to sleep... *yawn* Not to mention the stress of this contract for deed and the crazy people we're dealing with... One restraining order too many in my life right now.  
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**...yes. My life is nuts. :D  
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**Thank you to Guest, Wilona Riva, pammiez x3, rowan catara, ds862, notwritten, almightyswot, GOKOA, MsFrizzle, ThreeMoons3, BiblioMatsuri, helen carter, SnapesYukuai, EbonyWing, saggyherman, Thatsallwegot, Brainiac5, Sammy Ocean, Aerois, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, and frodothejedi for the awesome reviews!**

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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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It took until late in the afternoon before Harry was able to finagle his way out of the hospital wing and back into the hallway. Fortunately, Madam Pomfrey seemed to place more of the blame for the last foray out of the hospital wing upon Snape. With just a few warnings about not wearing himself out and being back promptly for supper, the door closed behind him.

Harry made his way down the hallway, happy to be away from his potions master. The man seemed snarkier than usual after his reprimand from Dumbledore. Between Snape's mood, the gloom of the storm, and the emptiness of the old castle, Harry found himself looking for something to do that would lift his spirits.

It didn't help that one of the creatures his book had decided to detail was ghosts. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon compulsively learning how to tell a '_bhoot_' ghost from a _'raakshas_' ghost. And then being tormented by a nice, long tale about the _'mantrik_' that haunted Azkaban before the dementors chased it away. All in all, way too much information about ghosts.

Now he was constantly looking over his shoulder, determined to not run into any of the local ghosts. Especially not the Bloody Baron – who had been slightly scary even before reading the cursed book.

Eventually he worked his way down to the great hall, wandering between the long rows of tables and enjoying the magical ceiling. Stray bolts of lightning were shooting here and there, the occasional crack of thunder rattling the tables. Rain fell in a steady beat, only to dissolve before it hit the level of the chandeliers.

There was a sharp pop of sound. "Master Potter is hungry?" came a soft, high pitched voice.

Harry turned around, flinching a little at the sight of the bowling ball head hovering over a tiny tea cozy. "No, not really. I was just wandering around."

The creature nodded, pulling at one of its ears. "Nezzy brings Master Potter a _small_ snack, since Master Potter says he's not really hungry."

Before Harry could say no, the thing was gone. It reappeared with a plate only seconds later, a small half-sandwich and a glass of juice in hand. Harry let out a small sigh, took the plate, and said, "Thanks, Nezzy."

"Master Potter is most welcome!" the little house elf squealed, pulling harder on its ear. Harry waited, half-hoping the ear wouldn't pop out of its socket. "Is there anything else Nezzy can do for Master Potter?"

Harry almost shook his head, but stopped. "You haven't seen Peeves, have you?"

"Nasty bad ghost," Nezzy muttered. "No, Nezzy stays away from the Peeves. The Peeves dropped Nezzy into a pot of stew, the Peeves did. Now Nezzy makes him go away with a snap of Nezzy's fingers."

"You can make him go away?" Harry sat down at one of the benches – paying no attention to the fact that he was sitting at a Slytherin table. When the creature nodded, Harry grinned. "Can you make him come closer?"

The creature froze, its already wide eyes growing bigger by the second. "Why would Nezzy want to make the Peeves come closer?"

"Peeves has something of mine," Harry said. "A red rock. I need to get it back, but I can't find Peeves. I was hoping you could help."

Licking its lips and pulling on its ear, the small house elf seemed to contemplate that. "Nezzy wishes to help Master Potter, but Nezzy isn't sure… The Peeves is a strong ghost." Its eyes stared up at Harry and started to water.

Harry leaned forwards, elbows on his knees. The plate of food was forgotten. "Can you try? Please?"

For another second, the creature seemed to think. Then it nodded. "Nezzy will help Master Potter. Nezzy is a good elf."

"Nezzy is a _great_ elf." Harry grinned happily. "Thank you, Nezzy. I owe you one."

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Blood drained from the tiny elf's face. "Oh, no, Master Potter isn't being owing Nezzy. No, no." Tears were pouring from the creature's eyes. Harry sat up, surprised by the sudden mood swing. "Nezzy is a good elf. Not be doing things for payment!"

"I'm sorry." Harry tried to comfort the strange thing, but the elf just sobbed. "I didn't… I don't owe you anything?"

The creature burst into even larger sobs, but it snapped its fingers. "Nezzy is sorry, Master Potter, but the Peeves is in the entrance hall. Nezzy can't get it any closer." Then, in a crack of magic, the house elf was gone.

"Thanks," Harry said to the empty space. Ignoring the snack the elf had brought, Harry pushed away from the table and practically sprinted out the doors, down the flight of steps past the empty hourglasses that recorded the house points, and skidded to a stop in the entrance hall.

Panting and looking around, Harry walked through the empty hall. His footsteps echoed under the high ceiling. The sound of the rain seemed especially loud in this room, pattering against the roof and walls like a thousand sets of feet. "Peeves?"

The front door was open – just a bit. Harry hurried over to it, skidding to a stop in the puddle of water that had already formed by the wind-blown rain drops. He pushed the door the rest of the way open, staring out into the gloom formed by the late afternoon thunderstorm.

Purple-gray clouds billowed overhead. Flares of super bright lightning sizzled across the sky. The nearly constant low rumble of thunder surrounded him, dimmed by the howl of the wind. Off in the distance, the Forbidden Forest was a dark mass of waving trees.

"Peeves!" Harry called out into the storm.

He couldn't imagine anyone being out in that storm. Not even a prank-loving poltergeist.

He was about to shut the door, to turn around and walk back inside, when he saw something. It was Peeves-shaped, sitting on a rock not a hundred feet from the castle doors. "Peeves?"

Hesitating, Harry stared at the door to the castle. He didn't know how the locks on the door worked over the summer and he really didn't want to be locked out of the castle in a storm like this. Then he glanced back at Peeves. The poltergeist wouldn't sit there long.

Finally he made a sound in the back of his throat, pushed open the door – hoping it would remain open – and made his way quickly down the front steps of the school. The grass squelched under his feet. The thin hospital slippers were nothing compared to the wetness and it took only seconds for his feet to be soaking wet. Without a jacket, Harry was dripping and oozing water before he was even half way to the errant ghost.

And the rain was _cold_.

"Peeves." Harry walked up next to the fat, stout ghost. Wrapping his arms around himself, Harry determinedly told himself he would not start shivering.

Peeves was staring up at the sky, watching the lightning flash from cloud to cloud. "Ickle Potty," the ghost greeted in its high-pitched, nasally drawl.

"What are you doing? It's raining."

The ghost looked over at Harry. "Potty is all wet," he snickered. "Heard Potty was off limits."

Harry shrugged. "I've been sick." He bit his lip a second. He had to do this right, or Peeves would never fall for it. There would be no second chances. "I was wondering if you could help me out."

"With what?" The old poltergeist had turned its head – just its head – so that he was looking at Harry. The strange angle of its neck made Harry shudder.

"Fred and George." Harry pushed at his wet hair, trying to get it to stop dripping in his eyes. "They've been playing jokes on me all year and I want to get them back for it. I need your help."

There was a loud crack of thunder. "Peeves is listening."

"I have a bottle of ever-stick glue. I'll give it to you if you use it to glue down every single thing that belongs to the twins." Harry found himself shivering. He struggled to stop, taking a deep breath as cold rain kept leeching down his back.

Peeves narrowed his eyes, floating into the air, then turning upside down. Finally, an insane grin appeared on the ghost's face. "Peeves can agree to this."

"On one condition." Harry stared into the creature's eyes. The rain was making his glasses hard to see through. "I need to know where you put the red rock – the one you took from me and Snape."

The ghost hovered closer and closer, until his bulbous nose was practically touching Harry's forehead. "Peeves put the Stone by the lake where the boats arrive." Then, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, grabbed Harry's nose. "Got your conk!" he shouted. Laughing at the top of his lungs, the ghost vanished up into the sky.

Harry rubbed at his bruised nose, sniffling a bit. "By the lake, huh?" A sharp crack of thunder made him flinch and crouch, staring up at the horrible rainstorm.

He glanced back at the castle, then towards the path that led to the lake. He _should_ go back and get someone to come with him. But there was no telling how long that would be or when Peeves would decide to move the rock. Or when someone would come to retrieve it from its hiding place. Besides, he was already soaking wet.

His feet were moving before Harry had truly made up his mind. He pelted down the path towards the lake, slipping in puddles with his hospital shoes. The rain slicked down his hair and plastered his thin clothes to his body.

One of the puddles proved to be especially slippery and Harry ended up lying on his stomach, mud giving him a coating of brown. "Bloody hell," he whispered, pushing himself back to his feet and taking it a bit more slowly. Scrapes on his knees and palms burned.

The lake ahead was a roiling mass of waves. The wind seemed stronger, coming off the lake, blasting past Harry in heavy gusts of wind. He narrowed his eyes and hurried down the path. An especially cold burst of wind made him shudder and huddle his arms closer to him.

Finally he reached the dock, taking careful steps onto the soaking wood. Waves lapped at the top of the dock. Thunder crashed overhead. Harry looked around for the little red rock Peeves had said was here.

For several minutes, Harry stood still on the dock, his hands tucked into his armpits, a dejected feeling settling into his stomach. He finally understood what had happened. Peeves had tricked him. There was no Stone out here – probably never was. And by now, the ghost had probably closed the doors to the school and locked them tight behind him.

Swearing colorfully – his Aunt would have his mouth washed out with soap if she ever heard even a tenth of the words – Harry started to stalk back to the school. His fingers were the better part of numb, his hands were shaking so badly he probably couldn't even operate the door to get back into the school anymore.

A flash of brilliant lightning, followed instantly by a crash of thunder that sent Harry tumbling to the ground. Brilliant white light had blinded him, making strange patterns dance in his vision. His glasses had gone missing, dislodged from their place perched on his nose. His ears were ringing painfully.

Harry felt around for his glasses, blinking the stars out of his eyes. He found them, rubbed off the worst of the mud, and put them back in place. Looking around, Harry saw that a tree not twenty feet away was smoldering. Struck by lightning.

"Okay, time to go inside," he whispered.

But he couldn't tear his eyes off the tree. There was something strange about it. Something he couldn't put his finger on. Rubbing at his ears and working his jaw to try to get rid of the horrible ringing, Harry got to his feet and hurried towards the tree.

It was a box. Settled in the crook of one of the tree's branches was a small metal box, gleaming in the light of the lightning strikes. Harry reached out and picked it up, feeling the gentle tingle of magic.

Rain pouring off his nose and his body almost convulsively shivering by this point, Harry pried open the box. The magical sense vanished the instant the lid was cracked. Something dark and red glistened in the folds of fabric inside.

Harry pulled at the fabric, shoving it wetly into one of his pockets. The thing that had been inside rattled against the metal. Harry turned the box over, arching an eyebrow in amazement when the Stone tumbled out and settled onto his palm. "Found you," He breathed.

A furious crack of thunder made Harry jump. He glanced around before hurrying back towards the school. His feet splashed in puddles and mud coated the bottom half of his pants. Stone clenched tightly in his fist, Harry breathed a huge sigh of relief when he found the door to the school still standing wide open.

He'd have to get a hold of a bottle of super glue now. Peeves had come through on his end of the bargain. And send a huge letter of pre-apology to Fred and George.

Teeth chattering, Harry stared out into the depths of the storm for a moment. Just for a split-second, he could have sworn that two red eyes stared back. He pushed the doors to the school closed and stood there for a moment, leaning against the doors, a puddle of muddy water forming under his feet, breathing heavily and just allowing his body to shiver. "I found it," he stuttered, grinning stupidly.

Leaving a trail of water behind him that would no doubt cause the caretaker to have a heart attack, Harry made his way up the front steps. The little metal box clunked against his thigh with every step. The Stone was unusually warm in his hand.

Left, right, up a flight of stairs, then two more lefts. Harry quietly pushed open the door to the hospital wing and stole inside.

Madam Pomfrey was standing over Snape, several potions bottles in her hand. They appeared to be debating which of the potions to take in which order for best effect. Snape trying to win through the use of glares and cutting insults. The mediwitch just arching an eyebrow and telling him it was her way or nothing.

The door closed a bit louder than necessary and both turned to look at him. Creepily identical expressions of horror and surprise colored their faces. Harry glanced down at himself, wincing slightly at the coating of mud and the pool of water rapidly expanding under his soaking shoes.

It was the mediwitch that found her voice first. "What in Merlin's name were you thinking!" she said. Her voice came out near a whisper, but the aghast fury was clear to hear. "You were on death's door not once this month, but _thrice_, and now you're soaking wet!"

Harry started to explain, but the mediwitch was hearing none of it. She was by his side in seconds, pressing a warm hand to the cold skin of his face. "You're freezing! And shivering. Get out of those clothes this instant. You'll need warming spells. A good bath. Some potions to make sure you don't get sick…" She turned to leave to grab some supplies, but swung herself back around with a sharp finger pointed into his face. "_Now_, Mr. Potter. Or I'll have you confounded and do it myself."

Nodding, eyes wide, Harry already had his shoes and socks kicked off before the mediwitch had made it more than three feet. But the stone was still warm in his hand and Harry stopped. Glancing up towards the still surprised looking potions master, Harry gave up taking off his clothes and walked over to him.

He must look a sight, standing there, dripping water, shivering, with the smile he knew was stretching his face. Digging into his pocket, Harry pulled out the little metal box and held it out.

Snape, after a quiet moment, reached up to take it. He glanced at it, flipping it over, and an eyebrow went up. "A locator spell," he muttered. The box clicked open and Snape peered inside. "Cute, Potter. A metal box with a deactivated locator spell. A few sickles at any shop on Diagon Alley. I am far from impressed."

Harry pulled the wet rag out of his pocket. "This was inside." Holding up the rag for inspection in the light, Harry could see that the handkerchief had a green border and a silver monogram. T.M.R. He watched the potions master stare at the bit of cloth for a moment, before holding out his other hand. The warm rock shimmered wetly in the flickering lights. "And this."

Slowly, almost reverently, the professor reached out and picked up the small rock. He turned it between his fingers. "You found Peeves."

"He was sitting on a rock," Harry started to explain, but was interrupted by the overly strong hands of Madam Pomfrey.

"_Now_, boy," she said firmly. Pushing him towards the showers, the woman was pulling at his shirt. "Not when you feel like it."

Harry allowed himself to be roughly herded, even helped to get his shirt off. As the woman turned on the warm water, her voice never stopping her constant, low-level chiding, Harry could see the potions professor through the crack in the door. The man held the rock closely, staring at it. His fingers ran over the Stone.

_Addicted_, that's what the book said about the people that drank from the Elixir. Harry watched, mouth dry, as Snape curled his fingers tightly around the Stone, closed his eyes, and pressed his fist against his bowed forehead. The man's shoulders rose then fell. Then his eyes opened and he looked up.

Their eyes met.

Snape nodded. He got to his feet with a glance towards the mediwitch and quietly stole from the room. There was the faint sound of the fireplace flaring to life.

Then Harry was thrust under the warm spray of the water.

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**To be continued...**


	21. Chapter 20: Secret Rooms

**Yay, the restraining order went through. Cross your fingers that I will have no more threats on my life from crazy, meth-ed up people. Perhaps I can get down the serious business of writing again. :)**

**Thank you to MsFrizzle, EbonyWing, Wilona Riva, almightswot, LilyIsAwesomerThanYOu, Guest, TeaPott, snapemartyr, notwritten, pearljamfan, Thatsallwegot, SAGGYHERMAN, tlyxor1, Sammy Ocean, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, and Nightshade's sydneylover105 for the awesome reviews!**

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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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Harry's fingers were white as they clutched the edge of the windowsill, staring down at the storm-washed ground. Red eyes were staring back at him, locked in a seething mist that swirled between looking like Snape and looking like a taller copy of Harry. Voldemort kept his gaze as he swarmed across the land – racing towards the school.

Behind him came _things_. Many of them he recognized from his readings in the Darke Creatures book. A banshee, hair trailing behind her in the grass. There was a pogrebin, hunching around and looking like a hairy rock. Several vampires. A werewolf. Several ghosts. Even what looked like a dementor. And more things, crawling, climbing, jumping, screeching, unidentifiable.

An army, amassed in the forest. Aimed towards Hogwarts. With the Dark Lord himself at the front.

"No!" Harry screamed as Dumbledore appeared in front of them. The man held up his wand, casting powerful spells that made the insides of Harry's ears hurt. Impossibly bright light speared through the sky, slamming against thing after thing after thing.

And there was Snape. In the shadows, his spells not as bright as the headmaster's, but none the less deadly. Darker spells that curled through the air like snakes, weaving past creatures that threw themselves in the way to strike at the intended target. Creatures dropped like flies.

Yet they still came. Like an endless flood, they poured from the darkness of the Forbidden Forest and crested along the ground. The two fought.

Harry watched, helpless, as they were surrounded.

As they fought.

As they died.

"NO!" he screamed, his wand jumping to his hand. He slashed it through the air, casting spell after spell. But from the height of the hospital wing, his first-year spells did nothing. One creature – some sort of fluffy baseball with wings – seemed to take delight in getting hit with the worst Harry could offer.

The slam of the doors opening rocked the school. Several spells shot out of the school onto the grounds, but they were quickly stopped. Whatever little resistance had been mounted in the front gate was broken.

"Harry Potter."

Harry didn't turn around.

"I have come for you."

Harry closed his eyes, rested his head on his hands.

"Turn around, boy."

With a snarl, he flung his eyes open, turned around, and-

And…

With a start, Harry realized he was sitting in a bed in the hospital wing. That sun was starting to shine through the windows as the morning crept ever closer. He blinked a few times and rubbed at his eyes. Picking at his pajama shirt, Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Fun," he whispered. "Another nightmare."

He glanced towards the hospital bed where Snape had been his unhappy companion the past week. The bed was empty. It had been empty when Harry'd gone to sleep that night.

Snape had never come back after delivering the Stone to Dumbledore. The man had taken the opportunity to run. Not that Harry could blame him. The hospital wing was a lot more cheerful without his dour presence, but it was a lot more quiet and boring.

Harry pressed his hands against his knees, shaking his head and trying to relax. Dumbledore had said that there was no way that Voldemort would be attacking again. No doubt the headmaster wouldn't leave the school alone again for awhile. He was safe – well, as safe as one could be when named Harry Potter.

He was not looking forwards to yet another long, boring day trapped in the hospital wing. The mediwitch would be unhelpfully smothering after yesterday. Harry would be lucky if he even made it out of bed.

Settling back down on the bed, Harry curled up on his side and drew his covers up close to his nose. It was too early to be up properly. Hopefully he would find his way back to the world of sleep before too long.

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Harry woke up to the quiet voice of Albus Dumbledore. "Harry."

Blinking grit out of his eyes, Harry sat up and reached for his glasses. Crossing his legs, Harry peered up at the headmaster. "Good morning," he said through a yawn.

Dumbledore set down the tray he'd been carrying. "Eat up, Harry, we have someplace to be, you and me."

Harry reached for one of the plates, examining his breakfast. Warm oats and toast slathered in jam. "I don't think Madam Pomfrey's going to let me out of the hospital wing today," he admitted.

"I think she will," Dumbledore said with a wane smile. "I had a chat with her last night."

Humming out a 'if you say so', Harry chewed on his toast. "Where are we going?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled. "You shall see, young Harry. Patience is a virtue."

Harry fought down the slight role of his eyes and picked up his bowl of oats, quickly spooning it into his mouth. It took only minutes for the bowl to be clean, the toast to be gone, and the muddy potion that had magically appeared on his tray to be glared at, procrastinated over, and then finally swallowed with a hearty shudder. "Is Snape going to be there?"

"Professor Snape, Harry. And no, he will not." Dumbledore's smile grew slightly. "He is choosing to remain hidden in his rooms. Are you ready to go?"

"Definitely." Harry sent a glance towards the office door as he set the tray aside and slipped his feet to the ground. The muddy hospital shoes he'd destroyed the previous day had been replaced with clean, dry ones. They slipped easily onto his feet. He shuffled his first few steps to get them settled around his heels correctly.

Dumbledore preceded Harry out of the hospital wing, quietly closing the door behind them. "Come along."

The castle was still and quiet, colder that it felt like it should be on a warm summer day. Shadows stretched between the windows like grasping fingers. A strange sort of darkness lingered around the corners of the ceiling, an odd glitter in the air near the candle flames. It was like nothing Harry had ever seen before.

There was something _off_.

Harry felt his feet slip to a stop as he gazed around, then found his eyes dwelling on the back of the headmaster's robes. It was a tiny voice in the back of his head, wondering how to tell if someone was possessed. For a moment, Harry found himself not quite trusting the man walking in front of him.

The headmaster stopped by the large burn spot on the wall. Dumbledore looked over his shoulder at Harry – who was a good twenty feet back by now – and arched an eyebrow. "Come here, Harry," the man said gently.

Thrusting the little voice into a corner of his mind, Harry walked over to the headmaster. He found himself stopping just out of reach.

"Can you feel this?" Dumbledore held up a hand, hovering his fingers over the scorch mark on the wall that had taken the burnt of Voldemort's killing curse.

Harry had already felt it, but he held out his hand none the less. The dark magic simmered and boiled on the wall. He stopped several inches away, afraid of burning his fingers. His head bobbed an agreement.

"Dark magic can leave rather nasty stains," Dumbledore murmured. "And no house-elves will go near it."

"Can you get rid of it?" Harry found himself unable to take his eyes off the mark.

"Certainly," came the quiet response. "After it has lost some of its potency. Perhaps in August it can be removed."

Harry pulled his eyes from the mark, shooting a glance at his smiling headmaster. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"

"No. I just find it interesting." The man had a smile on his face as he contemplated the wall. He looked no different than if someone was looking at a kitten in a pet store, thinking about purchasing a pet. "A lot of hate went into that spell."

"Yeah," Harry agreed quietly. His arms crossed over his chest. Snape and Voldemort – a great package deal.

Dumbledore hummed in his throat and shooed Harry further down the hall. "If it makes you feel better, after much consideration, I have decided that Voldemort didn't miss."

Harry stopped again. Only this time, he was in front of Dumbledore and the old man had to come to a stop as well. "What?" Harry put a hand against his chest, searching for his heartbeat.

Chuckling softly, Dumbledore patted Harry on the shoulder. "No, no, Harry. I didn't mean to say he'd hit you." The man's eyes twinkled merrily. "I mean to say that perhaps he _would have_ missed even if you hadn't ducked."

"Why?" Harry glanced over his shoulder at the scorch mark on the wall, allowing himself to be directed down the hallway once more.

"I believe that Severus was a good hand in making sure you weren't hit."

Harry walked a few steps in silence, thinking that through. "Professor Snape hates me," he said, uncertainly.

"I think the relationship between you two is… strained. Complex. Organic." Dumbledore turned them to the left, heading them up a flight of stairs. "And like anything else that is organic, it changes. It is the natural of life to change and grow."

With a shrug, Harry let the topic drop. But in his mind, he kept turning that over and over in his head. Voldemort missed – but perhaps because he was forced to. Perhaps Snape saved his life.

How many times did _this_ make?

By the time Dumbledore pulled them to a stop in front of large, wooden door, Harry had given up trying to figure out Severus Snape. The 'we hate each other' relationship was simpler to think about and deal with.

Dumbledore ran a finger down the edge of the doorway. Dark shadows hissed and curled away from his hand, racing along the corridor walls and into the darkness around the corner. A doorknob appeared, flowing like liquid metal from the wood to form into a simple door pull. "Harry," Dumbledore said.

Harry had taken a step backwards at the appearance of the shadows, another at the sound of his name. It took a few blinks before Harry focused on the headmaster's face again. The twinkling blue eyes were reassuring, the smile simple and innocent of the dark.

"What did you see?" the man asked softly, curiously.

"Dark things," Harry answered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Running away from the door…" Unconsciously, Harry found his eyes trailing after them, examining the darkness around them.

Dumbledore's lips pressed together. "Harry, you are in no danger."

"If you say so, Headmaster," Harry agreed, forming the words with his lips more than his heart.

"Come along," Dumbledore said, pulling against the old, wooden door. It opened smoothly and gently. "I have something I wish to show you."

Harry followed him quietly into the room. Light glowed from the ceiling. Not in flickering, magical candles like the rest of the castle. The entire ceiling was glowing with gentle light, chasing away even the darkest of shadows. Harry glanced down at his feet to check – even his own shadow was absent.

"The darkness fears the light," Dumbledore said, closing the door with a soft _click_. "Perhaps not in literal terms, but there is much behind such a saying. Do you know what this room is?"

Harry shook his head, looking around. It wasn't a huge room – it could easily fit inside of the first year dorm. There was a glass table in the center of the room – it held a large, glass bowl. Small glass shelves lined the sides of the room, each of them holding a small artifact. Some were pictures. Some were possessions. One even looked to be a child's teddy bear.

"Each of the founders left behind a room all those long years ago. Places of security for their heirs. Rowena Ravenclaw left a room that would always be exactly what you needed it to be, if only you are smart enough to find it. Helga Hufflepuff left a room filled with the most powerful magics of her time, if only you are loyal enough to get inside. Salazar Slitheryn left a room filled with the knowledge of the shadows, if only you are cunning enough to make your way inside, past the traps that lay in your path. And Godric Gryffindor…" Dumbledore trailed off, looking around the room with a pleased smile on his face. "He left a room for the courageous to relax in. A place where the shadows could not penetrate. A safe house." Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow. "But only for people that are brave enough to need it."

Harry just looked around the room, his eyes jumping from one little thing to the next. He glanced once at Dumbledore, then found his feet moving slowly towards the shelves. Little things lay here and there, neatly placed on the shelves. A glove. A photograph. A quill. An old potions textbook.

"Why are you showing me this?" The words came out of Harry's mouth without thought.

"You are safe here, Harry."

There it was, sitting on a shelf. A blood-red stone, smooth as silk. He knew what it was without even picking it up. "The Stone."

"Yes."

Harry could feel the headmaster step up behind him. "Why did you put it in here?" The words felt hollow in his ears. There was a bit of blood pounding in his mind. Pieces were clicking together in a way Harry didn't like.

"It is a safe place for it. Voldemort would never be able to find this room. He fears too many things."

"Why…" Harry trailed off, not sure what he was asking. But he let his mouth move, listening to the question that came out over the rushing of blood in his ears. "Why didn't you put it in here before? Why… now?"

There was silence. "It's very complicated, Harry. You are young, yet."

"Quirrell wouldn't have gotten anywhere near it if it'd been in here all the year," Harry said softly. "And then, over the summer-"

"Harry," Dumbledore broke in gently. "It would have been impossible to store the stone in here over the school year. And earlier in the summer."

Harry pulled his eyes from the stone. "Why?"

"You are so full of questions," the man said softly. "This room hides from everyone who does not need it. It's the essence of the magic Godric Gryffindor wielded. I could not find the room before last night. The room appeared as you were searching for the Stone in the rain."

Harry shook his head and looked away from the headmaster.

"This room hasn't been seen in a very long time. And yet, somehow, you called it from its hiding place." Dumbledore's hand touched Harry's shoulder. "There is something in here for you. Something you need."

"Like what?"

Dumbledore was silent a long moment. "Look and you will find, Harry." There was the sound of retreating footsteps, then the click of a door closing. He was alone.

Harry found himself grabbing the Stone and heading over to the table. It was glass, nearly see-through, with a glass-like chair beside it. A statue of some sort of bird – again, made of glass – sat on the tabletop. Harry sank into the chair, resting his elbows on the table, setting the Stone in front of him.

A book shimmered into view. Harry blinked and sat up, his eyes trailing automatically over the words. Dates, names, short descriptions of problems. It was some sort of log book. A quill rolled over the page, already wet with ink.

Harry ignored the quill, picking up the book and turning to the first page, studying the name that appeared. _Godric Gryffindor_. Signed by the founder himself. Harry flipped through a few pages. The man had filled a number of pages with musings about the problems of the day. Not truly interested – although he knew Hermione would be – Harry turned back to the current page. The last signature on the page was nearly two hundred years old.

Slowly, Harry picked up the quill and scribbled the date onto the next line. Then his name. But then he stopped, not quite knowing what to write. His eyes trailed over to the bloody Stone. "I need to destroy the Sorcerer's Stone," he wrote.

When he set the quill down, it vanished. The book seemed to melt back into the table, vanishing back into clear glass.

"To drink the Elixir from a golden chalice grants everlasting life."

Harry jumped to his feet, the chair clattering to the ground behind him. The hissing, distorted sound of Voldemort's voice echoed through the tiny room. Harry's breath caught in his throat, his heart slammed inside his chest.

"To drink the Elixir from the Holy Grail brings the destruction of the Stone."

Silence.

Harry stood perfectly still for a long moment, his eyes wide, staring everywhere. It was only when he started to relax that he noticed one section of the room was more brightly lit than the rest. One shelf, seeming to glow with light.

Harry – one last glance over his shoulder – made his way cautiously towards the glowing shelf. On it sat a golden chalice. It was a simple thing, made of gleaming gold, dented and dinged with the passage of time. No placards marked its being, who'd brought it here, or who'd left it sitting on a simple shelf.

Ever so slowly, Harry reached out and picked up the chalice. It was heavy and cold in his fingers. He looked around again. "Hello?" he called.

With no answer, Harry glanced down at the cup. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"…drink…" echoed Voldemort's voice. The sound broke and chattered like a million tiny creatures clicking their teeth together.

"Yeah, I don't think so," Harry said. He set the cup back on the shelf and pulled his hand away.

"…destruction…"

Harry stood still, studying the strange cup. Then, very slowly, he reached out and picked the chalice back up. The shelf suddenly shattered into a hundred pieces, raining down on the floor as tinkling rain. The message was clear: don't set the cup back down.

Quietly making his way back to the glass table, Harry picked up the Stone. The force of the light grew in the room, making the cup gleam in an almost inhuman way. After a long moment, Harry dropped the Stone into the cup. It jangled loudly against the golden sides, echoing in the empty room.

"…drink…"

Harry's eyes drifted around the room. His thoughts meandered to Dumbledore, bringing him here. The strange shadows. The cold. Dumbledore's strange little smile. A tiny bit of memory of Voldemort-Snape.

Did he trust Dumbledore enough to trust the room he'd been shown?

"…drink…"

Holding the cup firmly in his hands, Harry started for the door to the room. He worked his way around the table, made it all the way to the door and pushed on it before the room hissed at him.

"…drink…"

"No." Harry pushed harder against the door, feeling it slide open. "I need a second opinion," he told the room.

The second he was clear of the door, it slammed shut. Dark, black shadows raced along the walls, reaching out claw-like, shadow hands to grasp at the door frame. Then the door was gone. Vanished like it never had been.

Harry licked his lips and glanced around, memorizing where he was. Turning on his heel, holding the golden chalice close, he headed for the one person he figured he could still trust.

And hopefully the greasy git would let him into his flat one last time.

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**To be continued...**


	22. Chapter 21: Dark Magic, Black Cauldrons

**Sorry for the long break between updates, you can read my dA journal (cordria. deviantart. com) if you want to hear the whole sob story as to why. Short recap: I've worked every single day for the past several weeks. Between work and sleep, my life was taken up. Hopefully I never have to do that again. **

**Ever.**

**I'll probably update a few times this week to make it up to you. :)**

**You can also check out my deviantart account for an 'author's notes' version of the chapter filled with my own thoughts, reasonings, and insecurities as I wrote this.**

**Thank you to Ritsuka Shin, A, B00kw0rm92, GOKOA, Mystical G Panther, GabbyKat13, Boredom's Apprentice, Wilona Riva, Anisney-Robin, almightyswot, Thatsallwegot, musicgal100189, DarkRavie, saggyherman, LilyIsAwesomerThanYou, Sammy Ocean, notwritten, irezel, Nightshade's Sydneylover150, EbonyWing, enchantedlight, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet for the awesome reviews!**

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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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Harry found himself standing in front of the repaired door. Whoever had finally fixed the major hole in the hallway had done a stellar job – the new bricks and doorway were covered in magically applied stains and age streaks. Harry would have been hard-pressed to say that the door had suffered any sort of damage, if he'd not witnessed it first hand.

It made him, just for a moment, wonder what _else_ happened in this castle over the summer that was just 'fixed' before students came back. Surely the return of Voldemort wouldn't be spread around the school population in a newsletter. It would probably be quietly ignored come September.

Harry knocked. It took only seconds for the door to click and slip open, Snape standing there. The man looked better than he had in the hospital wing, but he still looked a bit gaunt and worn around the edges. There was something in his eyes that said he'd rather be sleeping.

The man stared at him, then down at the cup in his hand. Harry realized that due to their height differences, Snape could see inside the chalice – see the Stone. A look of utter longing flared through Snape's eyes, then was blasted aside with sparkling anger and rage.

The door slammed shut.

Harry stood still for a long moment, blinking, startled, before his brain caught up with him. "I didn't bring this down here for you to drink," he yelled through the door. "I need your help!"

No response.

So Harry did what any almost-twelve-year-old boy would do. He started to knock again. Only this time, he did not stop. He knocked and knocked and knocked and knocked and, when his knuckles started to get tired, switched to the side of his hand and banged on the door with his fist. At one point, he felt oddly like Dudley, smashing against the door to Harry's little closet under the stairs with the desire to torment. He almost stopped, but shook his head to rid the memory and kept going.

When the door was finally wrenched open, Harry found himself the subject of a burning, hate-filled gaze. "You have ten seconds before I wipe you from this Earth - job and ten years in Azcaban be damned." There was no joking in Snape's voice.

"I need your help."

"Seven seconds," Snape snarled.

"I didn't bring this down here for you to _drink_," Harry said, his voice coming out in a rush. "Dumbledore showed me this room, and there was this cup in it, and the Stone, and there was this creepy voice that sounded just like Vol… the Dark Lord's, and it was telling me to drink from it, and Dumbledore had left me alone, but there's something creepy around him and in the castle and it's been following me around, and how do you tell if someone is possessed?"

Snape blinked. His head tipped slightly to the side as the fury dimmed from his eyes. "Why did you come here?"

Harry found the words coming slowly and forcibly to his mouth. They barely made it out of his mouth in a way that was intelligible. "I… trust… you."

Perhaps it was the look on his face when he said it. Maybe it was the garbled sound of his voice. Or maybe it was something else entirely… but Snape let out a small sound of disgust and pushed the door open further. "In."

It took Harry a moment to understand that. After all that rage, Snape was really going to let him inside?

"Are you waiting to be carried, Oh Great One?" the man snapped. "Because you're barking up the wrong tree. Either come in or leave."

Harry hurried into Snape's fixed-up apartment. It looked remarkably like it had before, only there were blank spots on the walls where things had been broken beyond repair. Several shelves were empty of their books. A few things – the rug and the couch, for example – still had a purplish glow to them.

"You generally do not tell if someone is possessed," Snape said, startling Harry out of his perusal of the renovated apartment. "Possessions are extremely rare." There was the sound of tapping, making Harry turn around to see what it was. Snape was seated at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers slowly against the wood. "You are implying that the headmaster is possessed?"

Harry shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again. "I don't know," he said, his voice crackling slightly. He coughed and sighed. "There was something weird about him…"

Snape's mouth narrowed into a line. "Sit," he said, pointing to another chair. "As I highly doubt Madame Pomfrey is happy with you being out of the hospital wing, I'd prefer you rest as much as possible."

"See, that's the first thing," Harry said as he dropped himself into the chair. He was about to set the chalice on the table, but stopped at the look that crossed Snape's face. Changing his mind, he set it on the ground by his feet. "I don't think Madam Pomfrey _wants_ me out of the hospital wing. But Dumbl… Headmaster Dumbledore came really early this morning and we kind of snuck out. He said it was okay, but…"

Snape nodded.

"And then he took me to see the scorch mark on the wall-"

"What scorch mark?" At Harry's confused blink, Snape added snarkily, "There are hundreds, Potter, if not _thousands_ on the walls of Hogwarts."

"The one from when Vol… the Dark Lord sent the _Avada Kedavra_ curse at me," Harry said softly. There was a look on Snape's face Harry couldn't identify, so he plowed along. "He had me feel it. It was still really hot-"

Snape held up a hand. "Have you felt heat from scorch marks before?"

Harry stared at him for a long second. He didn't go around _touching_ scorch marks on the walls. What would be the point to that? But he let a shrug happen, realizing he'd probably trailed his fingers over dozens of tiny scorch marks over the year. "I don't think so."

Snape drummed his fingers against the table in a loud rattle. "Continue."

"So he took me to this little room. He ran his finger over the door and all these little dark things appeared in the crack of the door and ran away. Except they weren't running, they were like flowing along the walls, because they looked like shadows with hands…" Harry trailed off, feeling his face heat up as he realized how stupid he was sounding.

The potions professor just watched him.

Harry took a deep breath and continued. "He took me inside and told me it was Godric Gryffindor's secret room, and that it had just appeared. And he left me there, inside, saying there was something in there I needed to find. I found this cup and the Stone, and there was the Dark Lord's voice echoing out of the walls, telling me to drink."

Snape suddenly stood up. Harry was about to follow when Snape slammed his hand against the tabletop. Dark shadows erupted from under his hand, racing across the table towards where Harry was sitting. Tiny, shadowy hands reached out, claws reaching the rip and tear…

Harry pushed away from the table with such force that his chair tumbled backwards. Scrambling away from the table, Harry quickly found himself with his back against the cabinets of Snape's kitchen, his eyes wide and his breath rasping in his throat.

The shadowy things prowled the edge of the table for a moment before dissipating. Harry finally wrenched his eyes off them to find Snape gone, only the sound of his footsteps coming from the hallway helping to determine what had happened to the man. Unwilling to be left alone after seeing those things again, Harry scrambled to his feet and followed.

He reached Snape just as the man was pulling open the door to his private lab. The man paused, glaring down at Harry. Harry cringed a little, knowing he wasn't going to be allowed to follow any further.

"You are leaving the Stone alone in an unprotected room."

Glancing over his shoulder, Harry could just barely catch the glitter of gold under the table. "Oh…"

"Go retrieve it, you silly child," the man snapped. "It is too important to be left alone."

Wincing from the tone in the potion master's voice, Harry hurried back to the kitchen and picked up the chalice. The blood-red stone clinked around inside as he turned around. Snape was just visible at the end of the hallway. Watching.

Waiting.

Harry, surprised and startlingly grateful, hurried back to end of the hallway, reaching Snape's side as the man pushed open the door and directed them down into the lab.

The lab was almost bare. Most of the glass vials had been shattered – quite possibly unable to be fixed – and the purple fog had destroyed most of Snape's potion stores. Small cauldrons were sparklingly clean and stacked along the walls. The shelves had been repaired and were sitting straight on the walls, ready for ingredients to be stacked on top. The Mirror of Erised was gone.

Snape headed straight for a small bookshelf. His bony fingers traced over the books until he pulled out a thick book bound in pale-colored leather. Harry quietly worked his way to the bookshelf as well, studying the book Snape held in his hands. It took a moment for Harry to realize what the pale leather was made from.

"Is that human skin?" Harry asked, then winced at the sound of his own voice.

Snape made a noise Harry assumed was agreement. Finally the man seemed to find the page he was looking for. He turned the book around, one of the thick parchments open for Harry to read. On it, tiny drawings of shadowy things crawled between the words scratched onto the page.

Harry's eyes widened in recognition. "What are-"

The book snapped shut. Snape quietly placed it back on his bookshelf and stared at the books. Then his eyes flicked back to Harry's face, studying it silently. "I take it you have never seen these… _shadows_… before."

Harry shook his head. "What are they?" he asked softly.

"The essence of dark magic," Snape said, heading back out of the lab.

Harry had no choice but to follow, holding the golden cup close, hoping Snape would actually explain something. But, as usual, Snape seemed to believe that was enough. "What does that mean?" Harry asked when Snape closed his lab door and started down the hallway.

"Now and then, people learn to see magic. Not just the light that spells create once they are activated, but the magic itself." Snape swept back into his kitchen. "Most people describe what they see as a sort of weave – lines of glowing light in the world."

Harry sat back down at the table, holding the cup in his lap, watching Snape pace back and forth. "That's not what I'm seeing…"

"Light magic and dark magic are two very different things," Snape said in a terse tone. "If you'd _listen_ for once, perhaps you'd learn something." Snape glared at him until Harry dropped his head and studied his fingers. "Dark magic is not simply _magic, _Potter. Muggles have a saying that it's not the gun that kills someone, it's the person wielding it. Most wizards make the same conclusion about magic – that all magic is inherently _okay_, it simply depends on how you use it."

Snape sank gracefully into a chair, steepling his fingers. "That is not the case. Dark magic comes from a different place. It is _inherently_ different. The magic itself is dark and dangerous."

The man paused, so Harry nodded his head.

"Very few people learn to see dark magic. But the few that do… they describe it as dark shadows, almost alive, reaching out to grab onto things. I suspect you are seeing that magic – not spells, simply the _potential_ for spells. The headmaster is not possessed, Potter. You are simply starting to see the dark magic that runs from his presence."

Harry waited a beat, chewing on his tongue, hoping Snape would say more. When nothing seemed to be forthcoming, he took a breath. "Why?" he asked quietly.

Snape's eyes turned to bore into Harry's. Dark. Coal. Endless. Suddenly his hand came out, waiting for something.

Harry's eyes flicked from Snape's hand to his face. "What?"

"The chalice," Snape drawled. "Is that not what you came for?"

A bit startled by the sudden change in conversation, Harry fumbled with the golden cup sitting in his lap before holding it out for Snape to grab. The man took it quietly, his fingers curling around it in a white-knuckled grip. The other hand lightly ran around the top of the chalice, fingers making the gold hum softly.

"The voice said that a Holy Grail would destroy the Stone," Harry put in, when it seemed that Snape would be content to simply run his finger around the chalice.

Silence fell again. Harry found himself sitting there, wondering if maybe there would have been someone better to go talk to. Snape just stared down at the empty cup, eyes blank, face empty of all emotion. Harry's attention wandered.

"Has Professor Binns told you the story of the Black Cauldron?"

Snape's words snapped Harry's eyes back onto the quiet potions master. "No."

Snape's lip curled. "Of course not," he muttered. Silence for a beat. "About eight hundred years ago, a powerful Dark Lord rose to power. He created a special cauldron made from a black metal that would raise the dead."

"Bring people back to life?" Harry added softly, eyes widening at the thought of bringing back his parents.

"No." There was something surprisingly gentle in Snape's snarky tone. "There is no way to bring back a soul that has fled. The cauldron simply reanimated corpses, causing the _body_ to rise."

"Oh," Harry whispered.

Snape's eyes jumped – just for a moment – from the cup to Harry's face. "Undead cauldron-born revenged the countryside, destroying anything in their path, until a young wizard came along and threw himself into the cauldron while still alive."

Harry found himself swallowing, knowing what was coming next.

"Even the most powerful dark magic has a similar weakness." Snape's words were quiet, barely audible. "Like your parents did for you, destroying a spell that nobody thought could be defeated. Like the wizard did with the black cauldron, rending it to dust."

Staring down at his hands, Harry played with his fingers, quiet and surprised that his mother had come into play in this conversation. There was the sound of a sharp tap – wood against metal. Harry glanced up in time to see the chalice fill with water and Snape secrete his wand back away. There was a glowing, golden light simmering inside the cup.

"What does that…" he trailed off as Snape raised the chalice to his lips. Harry's eyes widened as the reason for the story suddenly jumped into startling, sharp focus. "No!" The chair went backwards as Harry flowed to his feet.

Much too late. Snape had already downed several large gulps.

The man tumbled, lifeless, from the chair. The chalice fell from his grasp, the soft metal of the golden cup denting as it hit the hard floor. Elixir flooded across the stone. A lone blood-colored stone rattled and danced its way across the floor to a spot under the couch.

There, shadows fled from the stone as it slowly crumbled to dust.

Harry wasn't paying it any attention. Instead, he was kneeling beside the still form of his potions professor, screaming for someone to come and help.

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**To be continued...**


	23. Chapter 22: Madam Pomfrey's Wrath

***sigh* Sorry for lack of updates and review replies, life continues to be harder than it has any right to be. Four-ish chapters left, if I can do my adding right. **

**Thank you to anyeshabaner, SNHfvr, LilyIsAwesomerThanYou, Wilona Riva, MsFrizzle, EbonyWing, GabbyKat13,enchantedlight, Thatsallwegot, almightyswot, Zireael07, Aerois, shadowlynx, SAGGYHERMAN, gaul1, Alavear, DarkRavie, CastlePhoenix, Mystical G Panther, Anisney-Robin, Nightshade's sydneylover150, B00kw0rm92, Dana J Sparks, IceDragon19, Ko-pia, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, and irezel for the awesome reviews!  
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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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It took less than a minute for Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey to burst into Snape's apartment. Harry found himself only half through explaining – badly – what had happened before he was thrust into a room and the door shut behind him. Dark. The sound of spells, the whisper of magic, the flare of light under the door.

With shaking hands, Harry pulled his wand out of his sleeve and flicked it. "_Lumos_." Light jumped readily to his command. Without thinking, he settled down onto his cot to stare at the door. Dark shadows of magic writhed away from the light of his wand.

Running his hands over the old blanket, Harry felt a moment of strangeness at the thought that the cot had been _his_. That Snape had left it here, in his office, even though Harry wouldn't be coming back. And now, Snape wouldn't be there at all.

Several books lay on the bed. Several had been opened to seemingly random pages. Harry picked one up, feeling rather empty of emotion, and flicked through the pages. It was an old charms book with tiny notes scribbled in the corners. A picture fell from the book when he was nearly halfway through.

Harry didn't pick it up.

He grabbed for another book, then another, then another. Pictures tumbled here and there, like they'd been left as bookmarks. By the time the bed was covered in old photographs, the pile of books was in a stack on the floor.

The book Hagrid had given to him had been wonderful. There had been pictures of his family, his mother and father – even a few with him in it – but that had just been it. Pictures of a short period of their lives after school, with them as a family. These…

Just from what he could see, it covered years. A decade or better. His entire mother's life, spread out on a bedspread. And every one of those moments linked to someone he might have _actually _been able to talk to.

The tears that came trickling down his face were mostly for what opportunity he had lost. The snarky, bitter man who'd barely attempted to teach him potions over the past year didn't really deserve tears. But his mother's best friend…

"…the boy has been through enough…"

Harry wiped his eyes with the back of his hand at the sound of the mediwitch's stern voice. He quickly gathered the pictures together, holding them close to his heart as he slipped closer to the door.

"…no, I forbid it…"

Fingers fumbled between holding his wand – the sole source of light – and keeping a hold of the pictures of his mother. Finally he managed to worm several fingers around the doorknob. It was warm beneath his hand.

"…Albus…"

Harry turned the knob. Slowly. Quietly. Pulled against it to open the door just a touch. Pretending his uncle was standing out there, discussing his latest punishment, Harry held his breath and _listened_.

"Mr. Potter has seen more than enough to last him a lifetime, I am putting my foot down."

There was the sound of a chair moving, sliding against the floor. Dumbledore's voice broke the quiet. "Poppy, Harry has a future ahead of him we cannot-"

"A _future_ that will wait for him for the next several weeks as he heals." The mediwitch sounded like she had her hands on her hips, fury in her voice, and a scowl on her face.

"You do not understand-"

"I may not see the bigger picture, Albus, but what I _understand_ perfectly is my responsibility to the children in this school. Harry _is not well_. After all that has happened, how could he be?"

Harry let a small snort slip through his nose at that.

"Harry can recover at his relatives."

Harry felt his heart stop in his chest. His mouth went dry and the hand holding his wand started to tremble.

"No." It wasn't the mediwitch's voice. It wasn't Dumbledore's voice either. Harry strained to hear more, but there was the rustle of clothing and the sound of water running.

"Due to the circumstances, Mr. Potter will remain at Hogwarts, under medical supervision, until I say otherwise." Madam Pomfrey's voice was stern and solid. "It is my prerogative as head of the hospital wing to require it. I am _requiring_ Mr. Potter to pass a medical examination and meet with a mental health specialist before he will be allowed to leave the grounds."

There was silence for a long beat. "Poppy-"

Harry could imagine the woman holding up a finger to forestall the headmaster's arguments. "I will bring this before the board if I must."

"He is eleven, he cannot remain unsupervised." Dumbledore's voice was quiet and fixed.

There was a snort of derision from the other room. Harry found himself staring at the tiny crack he'd made, then bringing his fingers up to slowly pry it open just a bit more. Just so he could see what was happening.

"I imagine," Dumbledore continued blandly, "that you will not have the time to keep tabs on him. None of the other staff will be able to either. We can send the appropriate medical staff to his relative's house when needed, so that Harry can relax in his own bed."

Harry finally got the door open enough to peer into the living room. Snape's body was lying on the couch, covered in a blanket up to his neck. Dumbledore was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, the mediwitch was standing near him.

"He may remain here." The voice was rusty and broken. But Harry recognized it with a dull sort of fascination. How…?

Dumbledore arched an eyebrow. "I do not think, given the circumstances-"

"A perfect idea," the mediwitch said, overrunning the headmaster's thoughts. "You will need looking after as well."

The body on the couch roused itself up onto its elbows, glaring fitfully at the mediwitch. Harry blinked and started, a few of the pictures slipping from his grasp.

Snape let out a short breath. "I hardly think-" Snape collapsed again under the force of Madam Pomfrey's glare.

"I agree with you there," she snapped. "Not do you almost die once, but you find yourself attempting to commit suicide not a week later. And in the presence of an _eleven-year-old boy_. You were most definitely not thinking."

"Poppy," Dumbledore said, his voice obviously trying to placate the irate woman. But the man didn't say anything more when the witch turned her attention to him.

"It is my _duty_," Madam Pomfrey said with her arms across her chest, "to name a medical guardian for the boy as he convalesces, and to assure Severus' health in the process. I find the situation perfectly fitting." The body of Severus Snape was shaking its head back and forth and back and forth, but the mediwitch shook her finger in its face. "That is _twice_ that I have restarted your heart in less than a week, young man. Be aware that I will _not_ do it thrice."

"I am hardly a young-" Snape started, pushing himself back up onto his elbows.

The old mediwitch raised her chin and arched an eyebrow. Harry winced from his spot behind the door, knowing that look. Aunt Petunia got that look when Harry tried to talk his way out of one of Uncle Vernon's more _creative_ punishments.

Snape fell silent, a dark look crossing his eyes.

Madam Pomfrey twitched her wand and the blanket Snape had unsettled with his movements snapped back into place under his chin. Then she spun on her heel and headed towards Harry.

Harry, eyes wide with the sudden movement, stumbled backwards and collapsed onto his cot in the semi-dark of the room. He could hear Dumbledore talking but the words were too muffled by the mostly-closed door to make out.

The door swung open. "-isn't an ideal situation, Poppy. Harry _needs_-" Madam Pomfrey stalked into the room and shut the door behind her with a click. Dumbledore's voice trailed off. The mediwitch waved her wand and the flickering lights in the room rushed into being, chasing away the worst of the shadows.

"Oh, child," she said with a sigh, settling down on the cot next to Harry and taking a bit of her apron to swipe at the tears that were drying on his cheeks. "Don't cry now. Everything will be fine."

"Snape's alive." Harry felt the need to state that fact, although he wasn't sure why. He shook away the light at the end of his wand and stashed the wand away.

"Of course. Nobody dies in Hogwarts without my express approval." The mediwitch patted his cheek. "I have a rather large request of you, Mr. Potter. Professor Snape refuses to return to the hospital wing and I do not have time to cater to his every whim."

Shuffling the pictures around in his hand, Harry gazed down at the figures. "You want me to help take care of him."

"You'll stay here, make sure he doesn't overly stress himself. He'll watch you, make sure you stay out of trouble. I realize he is not the most patient and loving guardian possible for the next month, but my hope is that together, you two can stay out of my hospital wing until August." The witch arched an eyebrow. "I will, of course, need to get consent from your relatives for you to remain until then."

Harry couldn't help the small eye roll at the thought.

She patted his cheek again as she stood up. "Yes," she said softly, "I didn't think it'd be hard."

"But Dumbledore-"

"The Headmaster is responsible for many things, Mr. Potter, but when it comes to the health of someone – _especially _a student – I have ultimate authority. Come along now."

Nodding, Harry followed her to the door. She swept into the room grandly, Harry feeling a bit like a lost puppy as he trailed behind her. He stopped at the threshold, looking out at the three adults. Three of the most powerful people in his world.

At _least_ one of which did not want him in this room. Harry flicked his eyes from Snape to Dumbledore, trying to guess who was going to protest his continued presence first.

"You are to remain lying down for the next forty-eight hours," the mediwitch was telling Snape. "I do not want to see you on your feet except for short trips to the bathroom. Should you need anything, Mr. Potter will be here to assist you."

Snape's dark eyes were focused on Harry's. Harry felt like his soul was being tugged on, pulled open, and analyzed. There was something both paralyzing and entrancing in the feeling.

There was the sound of a door closing sharply. Harry flinched and glanced around, noticing that the woman was gone. He took a few deep breaths.

"I will try to talk some sense into her, Harry," Dumbledore said gently. A hand patted Harry's shoulder. "You'll be home and safe with your relatives in no time. Until then, I'm sure you'll make an excellent aide." There was a smile on his face that made his blue eyes twinkle. "Severus is grateful to have you."

"Yeah," Harry responded.

Then Dumbledore was gone and Harry was alone. The pictures still held in his hand crinkled softly in the silence. His heart was beating loud enough that he was sure Snape could hear it.

"Let's get something straight, Potter," Snape said with a rough rasp to his voice.

"I don't really want this either," Harry said softly.

Actually, not going back to his relatives was all he _ever_ wanted. From before he could remember, he'd been wishing for someone that would keep from having to live with them.

Only… it had to be snarky, greasy, better-than-thou Snape. That was how Harry's luck went. Offer up the fulfillment of a lifelong wish and then mow it down at the knees.

After all that had happened today, this was just one more thing. He felt his heart cracking. Harry shuffled his feet, wanting to hide in the den and pretend today was over.

Snape's face was blank. "Get me a glass of water," the man commanded. Harry, still too busy contemplating how cruel a turn life could take, didn't even notice until Snape sighed and added an annoyed, "If you _please_, Your Royalness."

He thought about stalking into the den and slamming the door. He thought about getting the glass of water and throwing it into the man's face. He thought about getting the glass and then demanding an apology before handing it over.

Then he saw how pale and empty the man lying on the couch seemed. The way his eyes were half-closed and his chest moved up and down in strange little lurches. How his heart had stopped beating not twenty minutes earlier.

And why?

Because Harry had brought him the Sorcerer's Stone. In a way, Snape's current condition was something of Harry's doing. His heart cracked just a bit more, the thin barrier Harry'd put around his emotions starting to stretch.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly through his nose, Harry made his way over to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, vowing to not let this self-imposed guilt-trip last more than the forty-eight hours Madam Pomfrey had confined Snape to bed rest. He held out the glass to Snape, who was struggling to sit up to drink it.

Finally, Snape took the glass with arms that trembled and shook. He made a noise in the back of his nose that Harry had come to associate with 'thank you'.

Figuring his job was done, Harry turned to head back to the den and absorb himself in the pictures he still had clutched in one hand. A cold hand grabbed his wrist.

"You were eavesdropping earlier," Snape said. His voice was bland.

"So?" Harry countered.

"Then you realize that I _volunteered_ to have you stay here."

Harry paused, glancing back at the greasy-haired professor. "So?"

The hand released his wrist. Snape gave a disgusted little sound. "Go look at your pictures, Potter."

Harry blinked a few times, gazing at the man, but Snape just relaxed down on the couch and closed his eyes. For all intents and purposes, the man was asleep. Harry stood there for a few moments, waiting.

Then he shrugged and headed to the little den, closing the door behind him.

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**To be continued...**


	24. Chapter 23: Sacrificial Truths

**All remaining chapters are rough drafted. Hopefully I can keep up the editing to keep them coming your way. :)**

**Again, sorry for lack of review replies. I have read them all and I seriously adore you guys, but work has been chewing up my free time. It'll stop, soon. I hope.  
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**Thank you to MsFrizzle, xXEvie PotterXx, Nota Bene, COKOA, MaimOrSeriouslyInjure, EbonyWing, saggyherman, SnapesYukuai, enchangedlight, DarkRavie, musicgal100189, anyeshabaner, Angel-Miyu, MnM-Flurry, Man of Constant Sorrow, notwritten, and B00kw0rm92 for the awesome reviews!  
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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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"Potter!"

Harry jolted awake on his cot, blinking cobwebs from his mind as he stared at the ceiling, attempting to determine where he was. Finally, a few pieces clicked together in his mind. Slowly stretching, Harry yawned and rubbed at his eyes.

"Potter!"

Grabbing the picture that had been lying against his chest, Harry held it up to the light. It was the one he'd stolen from the Gryffindor common room. His mother smiled out at him, surrounded by all the flowers she'd made. He must have fallen asleep staring at it.

He brushed a finger over her face, the cold glass separating him from his mother, before carefully setting it down on a shelf. The wrinkled, frozen picture of his mother and Snape under the tree sat next to it.

"Idiot! Don't you even know how to come when you're called?"

With a heavy sigh, Harry sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He hoped it was even messier now that in had been before, knowing how much Snape would appreciate that. Pushing himself to his feet, he slipped out the room without bothering to brush the worst of the wrinkles from his clothes, letting the heavy door click closed behind him.

The crabby potions professor was still lying on the couch, covered in the blanket Madam Pomfrey had conjured hours earlier. Seeing him there, pale and near death, Harry felt a frozen finger of remorse curl around his heart and squeeze mercilessly. The man had almost died because of him – because of a request Harry hadn't even known he was making. Firmly reminding himself that this guilty-feeling thing was going to stop when the professor was back on his feet, Harry quietly made his way across the living room.

Snape's eyes were closed, eyelashes dark against his white face. Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he'd walked so slowly that the man had fallen back to sleep again.

"There are some crackers and soup on the counter." Snape's voice was quiet and cold. He didn't bother to open his eyes, somehow knowing Harry was standing there. "Bring me some."

Harry waited a moment, studying the man's pale complexion. Then, with a bit of a sigh, he turned to do what the professor had said. A huge bowl of tomato soup, warm and steaming, sat on the kitchen counter. Harry sniffed at it appreciatively, his stomach starting to complain about the lack of food that day.

"Get yourself some supper," Snape said, his voice carrying easily in the silent apartment. "I don't want Madam Pomfrey down here again."

With a glance towards the man lying on the couch, Harry dug through the cabinets until he found two small bowls, along with two cups and a small plate. He carefully ladled soup into the two bowls, set some crackers on the plate, and poured two glasses of chilled pumpkin juice.

Having to move carefully so that he wouldn't spill, Harry set the food on the small table beside the couch. He settled cross-legged on the floor, stealing a few of the crackers to crumble into his soup. The rug beneath him was soft and stained a slight purple.

Trying not to watch Snape slowly lever himself into a seated position, Harry focused on his soup. The way the crackers floated in small swirls across the surface. The warm steam that was rising into the air. The little bits of herbs and spices that collected along the edges.

But it wasn't much use. Harry couldn't stop glancing up at the professor. The sight of the pale man made his mind wander to the memory of Snape slowly tumbling to the floor. Of him lying on the ground, boils erupting on his skin from contact with the aconite. Harry poked at his soup, unable to stop his mind from picture Snape almost dying yet again, from something Harry had done.

They ate in stilted silence. Or, at least, _Harry_ ate in silence.

"Must you slurp so loudly?"

"Make sure you don't drip on my rug, the way you're eating."

"You are not a dog, Potter. Eat properly."

"Wipe your chin, this is not a barn!"

"Has no one taught you how to use a spoon, or is your skull too thick for the lessons to sink in?"

Having never given much thought to how he ate things, Harry found his fingers clenching tighter and tighter around the spoon. It was _soup_, how could you eat it wrong? At one point, he noticed that he'd bent Snape's spoon. Sighing and trying to unbend the spoon without Snape noticing, Harry shook his head firmly. He grabbed a few more crackers, his soup, and his glass of juice. "I'll just eat in the kitchen," he muttered as he got to his feet.

He needed to get away from Snape. The person he'd almost gotten killed twice. The man who'd repeatedly saved his life. The person who couldn't go more than two minutes without some sort of nasty comment.

There was a dark sound from Snape in between the quiet clink of silverware against the bowl.

Harry found himself stopping at the sound, more than halfway to the kitchen, staring down at the half-eaten bowl of soup. "Why?" The word slipped from his mouth without a thought. Knowing Snape couldn't have heard him, Harry twisted around, fixed his gaze on the man, and repeated the question. "Why did you do it?"

Dark eyes looked up, blank and endless. There's a long second of silence. "Do what?"

Gesturing with his cup – nearly spilling the pumpkin juice – Harry scowled. "You _hate_ me. But you drank that… Elixir… stuff, even though you knew it was going to kill you. I want to know why."

Snape's eyes hardened. "You think you can just demand answers-"

"Yes," Harry interrupted. He set down the bowl and cup on a table with a sharp clatter and stalked back to the couch. His arms crossed before his chest. "I think I can."

"Just like your father, then," Snape said with a callous smirk. "Demanding answers to every question that pops into your little mind." He looks away, sipping from his cup of pumpkin juice and grimacing at the flavor. "I suppose the world must end before I could get a decent cup of tea with supper," the man muttered quietly.

Harry ground his teeth. "I'm _not_… not every question…" he defended.

Snape arched an eyebrow.

"You almost died. It's my fault." Harry dropped back onto the ground, criss-crossing his legs, and keeping his eyes trained on his greasy professor. "I need to know why you did that."

After taking a bite of his soup, Snape asked, "Why?"

Harry hesitated. "Why what?"

"Why is it you _need_ to know?"

The question was a little unsettling. His arms lost some of their rigidity, slumping from tightly against his chest to lying in his lap. He looked away, unconsciously chewing on his lower lip. "I… I just… I do."

"You just _do_," Snape parroted back with a nasty twist to his voice. There was the sound of a spoon scraping the bottom of a bowl. "You'll need to do better than that."

"I do-" Harry heatedly cut off what he was about to say, feeling his fingers begin to curl into the lose material of his pants. Slowly letting out a breath, Harry let go of the tiny spike of frustration. "Why can't you just tell me?"

"Why can't you just give me a reason?"

Harry studied the slightly frayed edge of the rug he was sitting on. There was a trail of scorched stone leading from under the rug towards the door. His eyes wandered to the purple stains along the bottom edge of the couch, to the soft edge of the blanket Snape was curled up in. He couldn't get his eyes to go any higher. "I… just… I keep thinking about it. And it was me that was supposed to drink it. And you almost died." When the silence from Snape continued to drag on, Harry let out a sigh. "I want to stop thinking about it."

"You believe the answers to your questions will help you?"

Harry nodded, finding himself picking at a lose thread in his socks. "Yeah, I guess." There was a derisive sound from his professor and Harry shut his eyes with a groan. "Yes, _sir_, I do," he tried again. More than a little snark colored his voice.

"I wouldn't want our little prince to have nightmares," Snape said after a moment. "You could just imagine the front page of the Daily Prophet if they ever got a hold of that."

Finally dragging his eyes away from the ground, Harry shot Snape a glare, his mouth opening with a retort. Only Snape had a strange expression on his face. Harry froze, holding perfectly still, attempting to figure out what the look meant. It was almost… amusement?

It vanished after only a moment. Snape let a breath slip out his nose. "For your information, Potter, I did not know it was going to stop my heart."

Harry blinked, startled. "But you told me all those stories…" His head tipped to the side, his eyes narrowed, as thoughts swirled in his head. "About the black cauldron, and my mom. That they had to die-"

Snape held up a hand. "Stop your prattling." Harry's mouth audibly clicked shut, causing a sneer to form on Snape's face. "The destruction of something that dark does not always require death. It simply requires sacrifice. You misinterpreted the stories."

"But-" Harry cut off his sentence at a sharp glare.

"Yes, both the wizard in the story and your mother died – that was their sacrifice." Snape's voice grew quiet, the hardness in his eyes sharpening to steel. "If you'd have read the entire chapter on the Stone, rather than quitting halfway through, you'd have realized that the destruction of the Stone does not require the taking of a life."

The silence that descended on the room was broken only by the sound of Snape setting his spoon into his empty soup bowl. Harry reached out to grab the bowl without a thought, setting it on the ground beside him. "What did you… sacrifice, then?" Harry asked softly.

"Immortality."

Harry's eyes jerked from the bowl to Snape's face. The words tumbled from his lips. "But you said it would take lots of does to of the Elixir to give you-"

"You are prattling again, Potter," Snape interrupted. His eyes were dark and shadowed, the look only intensified by the pale skin of his cheeks and the rings under his eyes. "If you could speak properly…?"

Harry pressed his lips together for a moment. When he spoke, it was slower and calmer. "You said that you weren't immortal yet."

Snape gazed at him for a long moment. "I am not talking about the Stone's version of living forever. What is one life when compared to something like the Stone?" He was quiet, then shook his head and focused on something in the distance. "There are many types of immortality, _child_. The one the stone required…" Snape trailed off.

Confused, Harry just continued to gaze quietly at his professor.

Snape sighed and glanced back at Harry, his dark eyes boring deep into Harry's soul. "Your father and mother have both achieved a sort of immortality I will now never have. Not that I had much of a chance anyways."

Harry was disturbed by the deep sort of pain that was in Snape's eyes as he said that – a pain that Harry couldn't understand. He waited a beat, unable to figure out what the professor was hinting at. "Then why did your heart stop?"

There was a snort and a glimmer in Snape's eyes, something that was almost a smile gracing the pale lips. "I am not the person for selfless sacrifice, Potter. The Stone very nearly did not accept what I was willing to give." Snape shook his head, a bit of hair slipping from behind his ear to dangle in his face. "You probably would have had no such side effect. Go eat your supper."

Startled by the almost-compliment, Harry collected Snape's dirty dishes and slowly got to his feet. He hovered, having millions of more questions bursting in his mind but unsure whether he should ask them. The conversation was obviously over-

"Ask," Snape snapped, "before you work yourself sick."

"Why didn't you just do that earlier? Have someone drink from the… golden cup?" Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"Grail," Snape corrected darkly. "And we didn't have one, did we? Besides, the sacrifice needed… few would be willing to knowingly give up-" Snape stopped, his dark eyes gazing intently into Harry's. A pale understand filtered onto his face. "Knowingly or not, the Stone would have taken its sacrifice," he muttered softly. "Greater good, I suppose. What would it mean to someone who's not even twelve years of age?"

Getting the idea that Snape was talking to himself more than anything, Harry shifted, uncomfortable in the strange stare he was getting. He glanced once towards the kitchen, where his soup was cooling, then back at the sick man. "Uh…"

"Has your little mind come up with another question that simply cannot wait?" The insults were there, but Snape's voice was empty of its usual rancor.

"You aren't planning on dying again, are you?" Harry flinched away from the fury he knew was going to accompany the answer.

But no such anger came. Snape was just silent.

Watching.

Staring.

Harry had the creepy sensation that Snape _understood_ why Harry was asking – understood perhaps better than Harry himself did.

"Madam Pomfrey has told me not to attempt dying again," Snape finally said. "And her word, as you know, is law in this school. I will be fine." They gazed at each other in silence for a beat. "Go eat your supper." This time, the command was final.

Harry, with a glance back at his snarky potions professor, slunk off to the kitchen table to eat his soup.

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**To be continued...**


	25. Chapter 24: The First Potion

**Got caught up in Camp NaNoWriMo, and then there were these computer issues that you don't want to hear about. I /think/ I have it figured out. Apologies for a month of no updates. :)**

**Thank you to CrazyCoco50, biancaruth, sunneedee, Teallama, mingthemusical, Ginger-Ginny, Guest, The arithmancer, LilyIsAwesomerThanYou, fanficfantasies, IceDragon19, Mystical G Panther, Trumpet Lover, EbonyWing, mizzrazz72, Wilona Riva, saggyherman, enchantedlight, notwritten, SNHfvr, Lon Wolfgood, B00kw0rm92, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, Nightshade's sydneylover150, musicgal110189, Guest, GOKOA, Zireael07, DarkRavie, and geetac for the awesome reviews!  
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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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Snape murmured yet another spell under his breath, swishing his wand and the peering at the corner of the blanket. Harry glanced up from his spot in the armchair. The man gave a disgusted snort and leaned back against the pillows, his eyes closing.

"I don't think Madame Pomfrey," Harry was quick to accent the name of the nurse, even though his voice was barely loud enough to carry across the room, "wanted you to use magic."

Dark eyes flickered up to him, shadowed under the man's furrowed brows. "Then she should have dealt with the noxious color of these blankets," he snapped. Knuckles curled white around the wand. "Not even a blasted color-change charm sticks to them."

Fidgeting quietly, Harry picked at the blanket he'd thrown around his shoulders. The strange purple tinge – caused by the fumes from the destroyed potion, most likely – seemed to be a color that could only found in the magical world. Harry quite liked it. He'd actually switched all the sheets on his cot for ones the house elves claimed were 'destroyed'.

"They'll just have to be replaced," Snape muttered.

Harry nodded his half-hearted agreement, wondering if he could hide a few sets in his trunk to bring back to the Dursleys. The thought of their reaction to how the blankets got to be this color brought a grin to his face. Perhaps he'd drape a few around the house. Or, even better, learn how to sew and make himself a set of clothes out of the worst-stained sheets. It'd be like Dursley-proof armor.

"I would like a cup of tea, Potter."

Shaking himself out of his imaginings, Harry slunk out of the chair and into the kitchen. He was just setting the kettle on the stove and trying to remember the spell to light it when a chair scraped. Harry shot a glance over his shoulder. Snape was settling heavily into the kitchen chair.

"I thought-" Harry started.

Snape cut him off with a wave of his hand. At the same time, there was a whooshing noise as the stove lit. "I have been on that couch long enough."

While the water was heating, Harry leaned against the counter and studied the man who had taken him in. Almost given his life for him. Had given up… something… so that Harry wouldn't have to. Snape's skin color was certainly much better. It was still white as bone, but that was normal. At least the pink flush and the waxy appearance were gone. His black eyes seemed sharper.

Very strangely, there was something about the knife-sharp gaze that settled the little knots working themselves together in Harry's stomach.

"Does my appearance not meet your approval?" the man said sharply.

Harry, startled at being caught staring, shrugged a non-answer. Looking away, Harry studied the cracks in the thick floor until the kettle started to whistle.

"Two cups," came the command as Harry grabbed for a cup.

Harry hesitated, then pulled two cups from the cupboard and set them on the table, along with the hot water. Snape was already fixing both of them cups of tea.

"You have been extremely quiet since our talk yesterday." Snape leaned across the table to set a steaming cup of tea in front of Harry. "While I have been enjoying the vacation from your idiotic prattle, I have begun to wonder if something more than usual is wrong with you."

Blinking at the strange combination of insult and show of concern, Harry found himself not knowing what to say. He settled for another shrug.

The man took a slow slip of his tea. Like almost everything else he did, Snape drank his tea with a sort of grace and refinement that was almost hypnotizing to watch. Harry found himself feeling completely inadequate, fixing his gaze firmly on his tea. He didn't try to drink any.

"I suppose it is necessary to reiterate the fact that you are not solely responsible for my current state of affairs."

"I know," Harry said. The tea in his cup swirled slowly, little waves lapping at the edges of the cup. Feeling like 'I know' wasn't a good enough answer, Harry scratched through his mind for something else to say. But yet again, he found absolutely nothing worth saying to the man who had saved his life on multiple occasions. So he shrugged.

There was a dark sigh. "Potter…" the name was growled out warningly. "I will glue your shoulders to your ears if you shrug at me again."

"I'm fine," Harry said, this time a little sullenly, studying the grain of the table. "Maybe I don't like to 'prattle' all the time."

Silence stretched, broken only by the tiny clicks of Snape's teacup against the saucer. Then another spell was muttered. Harry didn't bother to look up from the table until something slapped the table next to his teacup. He flinched slightly, glancing over to find the Darke Creatures book now resting on the kitchen table.

"Madame Pomfrey brought that down from the hospital wing for you. You shouldn't leave borrowed items lying around."

Harry reached over to grab the book and stuff it into his pocket, but his hand froze when one of the dark shadows of magic curled into existence on top. It seemed to be staring at his hand. Pulling his hand back, Harry watched the little dark thing vanish into the shadows.

"Are you truly that afraid of books?" The sharp barb that would usually accompany such an insult was missing. "Perhaps you have inherited your father's allergy towards learning."

Shaking his head, Harry swirled his finger in his tea. It was only lukewarm by now. "There was one of those shadow things," he muttered.

"Pardon me?"

Fixing his eyes firmly on his tea, Harry repeated himself a bit louder. "It was one of those shadow things."

"You are still seeing dark magic."

Harry nodded. "Do you know why?"

When there was no answer, Harry dragged his eyes away from the tea and back to his potions professor. The man was studying him with those razor-black eyes. "You realize that scar on your forehead is special." He took a sip of his tea, apparently waiting for Harry to nod. "When powerful magics come together, they will leave marks behind. Traces of their existence. The best minds in the wizarding world have spent the base decade trying to figure out how you survived a killing curse."

"It was my mother," Harry stated. "She loved-"

Snape cut him off with a sharp movement of his hand. "You are not the only one to have a mother sacrifice herself for her child. Don't feel so proud. I know the Headmaster believes firmly in it, but there is a fundamental gap of logic in the idea. There is more to your survival than simply your mother's death."

Finding his fingers more interesting than Snape's white face, Harry went back to stirring his tea with his finger. "Than what else was there?"

"You are a true idiot," Snape snorted, "if you believe I know the answer when nobody else does after years and years of work and research."

Harry found his lips tightening. "What does this have to do with seeing the shadows?"

"Some marks are visible, Potter. Others are not." There was the sound of a chair creaking as Snape leaned back. "The only other person in England with the ability to see dark magic is the Dark Lord – a skill he acquired only after a lot of work. A lot of death. I find it interesting that the child who survived his wrath so many times can do the same thing the Dark Lord can."

Harry thought that through. "I don't understand."

Snape just arched an eyebrow in return. "Than you haven't thought about it enough."

"I've thought about it plenty," Harry complained.

"If you are not going to drink your tea, take the dishes to the sink." Snape struggled to his feet. "It would do you better the read and learn than to pout over cold tea."

Harry found his eyes narrowing slightly as the man stumbled back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Finally he grabbed the two cups, took them to the sink, and rinsed them out. On his way back to the living room he stopped and stared down at the book.

The little bits of dark shadow stared back.

Working up enough courage, Harry snatched up the book and held it gingerly as he walked into the living room and dropped into the armchair. He gazed down at the cover, trying to reassure himself that the book was no more dangerous than it was before. Snape wouldn't knowingly give him a book that would hurt him.

Would he?

He chanced a glance over at his professor. The man seemed to be asleep already.

Fluttering his fingers over the cover, he flicked the book open to a random page. As usual, it opened to the beginning of a chapter. This one on dark magic shadows. Harry sat still, startled, then shot a second glance over at Snape. He glanced from the book to Snape a few times, then shook his head. "Magic," he muttered.

Starting to read the chapter, Harry caught sight of a dark thing sitting next to his finger. He drew his hand back and sent a glare at the bit of magic. It didn't seem intimidated. Harry let out a dark sigh and did his best to ignore it.

The noise that came from his sleeping professor sounded almost like a laugh.

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"Potter!"

Harry startled out of his half-asleep nap and jerked to his feet. Stumbling out of the little den, Harry found Snape leaning against the wall of the hallway. There was a weariness to the man's posture.

The dark eyes searched Harry's gaze. "Come along," the man snarled. "I haven't got all day." He turned and started towards the door to his potions lab.

Harry hesitated, then quickly followed. "Madame Pomfrey," he started, but stopped. He had a feeling bringing up the mediwitch's directive to stay on the couch for forty-eight hours would do nothing but bring Snape's wrath down around him.

The lab was nearly empty. Only a few potions ingredients sat on the shelves in little box and vials. Each was marked with Snape's spidery handwriting. A cauldron sat over a fire in the middle of the room, bubbling sluggishly. The thick, green ooze inside had a sickly color to it and it plooped with each popping bubble.

A hand on his shoulder directed him to stand near the cauldron. "What is it?" Harry found himself asking, peering at the potion. Whenever Ron or Neville created a potion of that color, Snape would vanish it and send nasty comments in their direction. Surely this wasn't a correct potion?

There wasn't an answer. Snape just positioned himself on the other side of the cauldron and held out a hand, waiting.

Harry gazed at him. "What?"

With an annoyed sound, Snape grabbed Harry's wrist. He pulled on it until Harry's hand was above the cauldron, the steam uncomfortably warm on his arm. There was a flash of silver in Snape's hand, then the knife made a little slice in the crook of Harry's arm.

"Hey!" Harry yelped, trying to pull his arm out of Snape's grasp. Snape's fingers were surprisingly strong, not allowing him to move. Harry fought down the trembling in his body as little drops of blood leaked from the cut, trailed down his arm, and dripped into the potion.

"Don't allow people to use your blood in potions. The outcome is rarely pleasant," the man murmured as his wand appeared in his nimble fingers. _"Episky._"

Harry was finally able to free his hand, scowling at the man as he rubbed his arm, smearing some of the remaining blood. The skin tingled from the healing. "I know that," he muttered.

Snape held his own arm over the cauldron, made a little slice, and watched several drops of blood drip into the potion as well. There was another quiet _Episky_ as the cauldron slowly swirled from sickly green to a darkish blue.

"What is it?" Harry asked again, looking around for the potions book Snape was using.

"Shut your mouth, pay attention, and you might figure it out," Snape said blandly. "I have been told you are quite intelligent, despite the fact you do not deign to use it in my class."

Harry narrowed his eyes, but watched quietly as Snape pulled two vials out of his pocked. There were small bits of reddish dust in the bottom, tiny swirls of silver smoke filling the rest.

Tapping the twin vials against his hand, Snape selected one and held it out. "This is the most expensive ingredient you will ever see. Be careful with it."

Harry, who had been reaching out to take it, paused a moment, then took it gently from Snape's grasp. Holding it up to the flickering lights, Harry shook it and watched the dust swirl and start to settle. Little bits of dark shadows danced in the falling dust. He couldn't quite hold back a shudder.

Glancing up at the professor's blank eyes, Harry found himself asking the same question over again. "What is it?"

This time, the man arched an eyebrow. "Can you not guess?"

Harry looked down at the dust, then at the thick blue potion, then at Snape. He blinked a few times and shook his head.

There was a heavy sigh. "Tell me, boy. Why was the Stone hidden at Hogwarts?"

Startled, Harry started to shrug until he remembered the warning from earlier. Snape was not one to forget his threats, especially where Gryffindors were concerned. "To…" he hesitated, pulling his thoughts together. "To keep it hidden from Dark Lord until you destroyed it, right?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "How many people knew the Dark Lord was trying to return at the beginning of the year?"

"Uh…" Harry licked his lips. "Professor Dumbledore, I guess," he tried. "He had the Stone moved from the bank vault…"

"There are many people who can hear whispers about the Dark Lord, Potter. People who knew the Dark Lord was starting to move, beginning to regroup, looking for a way back to life. The Stone was a logical choice for him to go after, however nobody – not even the headmaster – figured that Voldemort would make an attempt on the Flamel's vault. The Stone _was_ brought here so I could formulate a potion to destroy it, but it was mere coincidence that we got to it before he did." Snape peered at him. "But _why,_ Potter? Why destroy it now?"

Finding himself transfixed by Snape's eyes, Harry stared up at him. "The Dark Lord was coming for it?"

Snape let out a disgusted sound. "Your logic is flawed. The Flamel's are several centuries old. They've seen the rise and fall of several Dark Lords bent on immortality and world domination, but they've never agreed to have their Stone destroyed before now. Why now? Why this one? Over little more than rumors and whispers in the dark?"

Harry shook his head. "Voldemort's the worst one ever?"

Snape sneered at him. "Everyone always believes _their _dark lord is the worst ever. It is usually not the case. Try again. Surely your feeble little mind can come up with something better than that."

Predictably, Harry's mind went completely blank.

"I am not surprised. You don't take the time to see the whole story. Events are set in motion you can't even begin to grasp because you don't _look_. "

Harry was quiet as Snape stirred the potion a few times, testing its thickness by dribbling a bit off the end of a spoon. Harry shook the dust in his vial again, watching it swirl. Bloody red. Bits of dark magic still clinging desperately to the powdered dust. "This is the Stone," he whispered, stunned.

Snape made a noise in his throat Harry had decided was a sort of agreement.

Harry's eyes drifted from the vial to the bubbling, dark blue potion. "You're going to pour this into your potion?"

Snape glanced up at him, arched an eyebrow.

Staring, Harry's fingers were tight around the vial as he tried to fit the pieces together. "You… Dum… Professor Dumbledore needs a potion that was made from a Stone… from a _destroyed_ Stone… " Harry blinked a few times, then shook his head. "But why? What does this potion do?"

Snape made another noise and picked up the small vial he had – half the powdered Stone. He yanked out the cork with a practiced twist and then sent a sharp glare at Harry's unmoving hand. Harry pulled out the cork with a bit more work, fumbling slightly. Snape dumped his vial into the potion, the red dust cascading down like bloody snow and the silvery smoke trickling in.

Harry quietly poured his in too, watching the potion bubble violently. Steam and smoke rose into the air, making Harry take a startled step backwards. The potion sizzled, and then calmed suddenly. Harry peered over the side of the cauldron to see that only a small cupful was left at the bottom of the cauldron, the dark blue having become a smoky, beautiful liquid silver.

"Wow," he whispered.

Snape let out a snort. He picked up a ladle and carefully measured out two vials of the liquid. There was barely enough. The vials were almost see-through, swirling with shimmers of mirror-like silver. Snape held them up to the light, studying them, but then secreted them into his robes without another word.

"What are you still standing here for? Go find us some lunch." The words were a sharp command, but devoid of most of the coldness usually found in the man's voice.

"What does the potion do?" Harry asked, not moving.

Snape glanced at him, darkness creeping into his eyes. "Use your brain for once. Scram."

Harry stalked out of the professor's lab, somewhat more annoyed about being told to 'scram' than having a new mystery to puzzle over.

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"I won't let you have it," Harry told Quirrell furiously, his fingers reaching into his pocket to wrap securely around the Stone. He backed slowly away from the mirror.

Quirrell stalked forwards, slowly unwrapping the turban from around his head. "Let me talk with him," came a whispery voice.

Cold pin needles of dread curled down Harry's spine. He stumbled backwards, tripping over a step. Dropping to his hands and knees, Harry felt his heart pounding in his chest. "Stay away from me!"

The turban fell to the ground in a cascade of smelly fabric. Quirrell turned on his heel. And then the face was staring at him.

Steely black eyes. Sharp cheekbones.

It was Snape. "Give me the Stone, boy!" Snape hissed from the back of Quirrel's head. Cold, white fingers reached forwards to touch him -

Harry startled awake for the fourth time that night, brushing sweat off his forehead and sitting up in his cot. Snape's cold laugh was still echoing in his mind. He pressed his hands against his temples and leaned forwards.

He sat still for a long moment, chasing away the remnants of the nightmare through sheer willpower. His fingers still trembled slightly as he reached over to grab his wand and muttered a soft _"Lumos_". As the light swirled gently around the room, Harry picked up the picture of his mother on the swing.

There was no telling how long he sat there, staring down at the picture and running his finger over her face, before he fell back to sleep. His wand slowly flickered and died.

A shadow broke off from the wall and slipped over to his bedside. White fingers quietly removed the wand and picture from Harry's grasp and tossed one of the purple-stained blankets over his form. The shadow stood still for a long moment before vanishing back from where it had come.

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_Ron – _

Harry sat still at the kitchen table, glancing towards the living room. There was an odd sound coming from the vicinity of the couch. Something that sounded like choked-off laughter.

Not for the first time that afternoon, Harry fought down a snicker at the sound of Snape's snoring. He'd never heard anything like it. Shaking his head, he looked back down at his parchment.

_You'll never guess everything that's happened to me. Voldemort attacked the castle, and Snape almost died twice! I have to live with him for awhile until I get better-_

Harry's quill slowly stopped scratching out letters. He reread the last line, feeling something strange churning in the pit of his stomach. _Have _to live with him?

_Get_ to live with him?

Don't _have_ to live with the Dursleys?

Closing his eyes, Harry let out a breath and tapped the tip of his quill against the tiny inkpot. Snape was a cruel, hate-filled, unpleasant man. Who in their right mind would enjoy that sort of living arrangement?

_I think I've got a little crazy, since I'm not completely against the idea. Maybe Hermione's right – maybe I have gotten hit on the head a few too many times during Quidditch practice. Know where I can buy a good helmet?_

Shifting on his chair, Harry grinned as an exceptionally loud choke-snicker rang through the apartment. He quickly checked over his shoulder to make sure the man was still sound asleep.

_Snape doesn't live like a vampire, by the way. His place looks really normal, with the exception of how purple everything is. The one thing that makes it bearable is what he sounds like when he's sleeping. No telling him I told you, though. _

_I'm really hoping I can get out of here before August and spend the rest of the summer with you. Dumbledore thinks I should go back to the Dursleys for awhile, but I'd rather never see them again._

_Write back soon! -Harry_

Harry sat back in the chair, waiting for the ink to dry. It would be awhile before he'd be able to bring it up to the owlery for Hedwig to deliver, but at least it was written now.

As he picked up the parchment and folded it into a letter, Snape's snoring descended into something best described as a hyena with hiccups. Harry snorted out a laugh, trying to keep himself silent as he raced back to the tiny den. When the door clicked closed, he dropped onto his cot, quiet laughter shaking his body.

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**To be continued...**


	26. Chapter 25: Sorting Potions

**ANNOUNCING****: I am holding a contest for the last few chapters of this story.  
**

**WANTED: A unique cover design for this story so I can have the story printed and bound.**

**PRIZE: Either a copy of the book with your cover, or equivalent cost in DeviantArt points.**

**DUE: May 31, 2013 (date last chapter will be posted)**

**Details at my DeviantArt account: cordria. deviantart .com  
**

**Thank you to ThreeMoons3, GOKOA, emtherebel, PlanteHannah, fanficfantasies, enchanedlight, alc219, EbonyWing, Zireael07, saggyherman, MsFrizzle, notwritten, irezel, Mystical G Panther, DarkRavie, B00kw0rm92, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, and geetac for the awesome reviews!  
**

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**Allergic to Potions  
**A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

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The owls arrived while Harry was making lunch. He felt his mouth drop open as package after package was neatly dropped on the table – several starting to spill over onto the floor as the table filled. "Professor…?" he called after about the hundredth owl brushed past his head. Harry ducked slightly, holding a plate in front of him like a shield.

The man was sitting up on the couch, watching the owls with a critical eye. He shot Harry a nasty look. "Believe it or not, it's not fan mail for you," the man drawled. One larger owl soared in with a red-colored package and hovered above the table. "Grab that one and bring it here."

Getting sick of being ordered around - even though it was _slightly_ his fault that Snape was trapped on the couch - Harry loudly sighed as he reached for the package. The dark owl seemed happy to give it up, swooping to settle on the counter and preen its feathers. Feeling the thick package with his fingers and trying to guess the contents, he slunk into the living room and handed it over.

"How much longer before lunch is prepared?" Snape didn't look up from the package, neatly cutting the strings with a motion of his fingers and a brush of magic.

"A bit," Harry said back unhelpfully, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He hadn't even gotten a 'thank you'.

Snape's black eyes glanced up through his hair. "Your precision astounds me," he said. "No wonder your potions are sloppy."

The red paper of the package fell away, revealing several smaller packages. Each was labeled with small, precise handwriting. Snape hefted them, then brought the packages to his nose to sniff. Seeming satisfied, the man set them to the side.

"What's in them?"

Snape glanced up at him. "You shall find out later. Lunch."

Fighting off a scowl, Harry stalked back in to the kitchen, avoiding the towering pile of packages. The large, dark owl was still waiting. Yellow eyes stared at him. Harry reached for a bit of ham and held it out, wondering if this owl was like Hedwig and liked table scraps.

It took the ham, peering at him for more. Harry chuckled and handed over a half-dozen more scraps of ham before feeling brave enough to run his fingers down the owl's soft feathers. Not as soft as Hedwig's, he noted, but definitely soft.

The letter in his pocket crinkled. "Do you want to deliver a letter for me?"

The owl spread its wings slightly and peered at him, waiting.

Harry took the letter out of his pocket and held it up. "Ron Weasley?" He wondered if this bird would understand English like Hedwig seemed to be able to do.

Carefully taking the letter in his beak, the owl spread its feathers, beat its wings, and vanished through the window. Harry watched it go, wondering if his letter would actually make it to his friend. He shrugged as he leaned against the counter. He'd wait a few days and if didn't hear from Ron, he'd simply write it again.

"Lunch, boy! Is one task too much for your mind to hold on to?"

Harry's eyes drifted to the ceiling. "Coming!" he shouted back, grabbing the half-finished plate of ham sandwiches. Snape could make his own sandwiches if he was in that much of a hurry.

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...

Hiding in the little den-turned-bedroom seemed to be the perfect answer for Snape's temper. The longer the man was trapped on his couch, the nastier he got. In the den, Harry was left alone – and he had years of practice pretending he couldn't hear the rantings of adults through a door. Snape could sit on the couch and rant and rave about idiotic teenage boys and their idiotic fathers all he wanted. It seemed to be the best solution for them both.

Settling down at the desk, Harry picked up his quill and dipped the end into the inkwell. While not anywhere near the artist Neville was, Harry had found he had a knack for doodling. After hours upon hours of Neville's careful tutelage during History of Magic, Harry considered himself rather good. Besides it was a good way to waste time.

He sat back against the chair, studying the latest doodle. It was supposed to be a centaur from his Magical Creatures book. He added a few more lines here and there, horribly happy that Hermione wasn't around to pick at it. No, perhaps centaurs didn't have horns, but when one is doodling in ink, concessions have to be made for random lines.

"The key to a good doodle," he muttered in a voice as much like Neville's as he could make it, "is the things _around _it." He quickly added in a few trees and stars overhead. Then he added a speech bubble, chewing on the end of his quill as he tried to decide on something astronomically cryptic enough for a centaur to say.

"I see you inherited your mother's ability to draw," a voice said over his shoulder.

Harry flinched around and gazed upwards into dark eyes. He glanced towards the door, seeing it hanging open, then back to his professor. "She could draw?"

The eyes blinked and lips tightened. "No."

Glancing down at his picture, Harry raised an eyebrow. It wasn't so bad – he'd only started doodling a few months ago. Drawing was one of those things the Dursleys didn't like him doing. It wasn't 'practical'.

"Come along," Snape said. "If you're going to take up space in my apartment, you're going to be helpful."

With a sigh, Harry capped his ink and got to his feet. He was half expecting Snape to have collapsed back on the couch, ready to order Harry to get the apartment cleaned, but the man was headed down the hallway towards his potions lab. A bit more interested in what was going on, Harry picked up his pace and managed to catch up to Snape as he was pushing open the door.

He was about to head into the lab, when Snape's arm speared out and snagged his shoulder. "I will have your word," he said firmly, "that what you see and hear in this lab will remind an absolute secret."

Eyes wide, Harry nodded. A small smile flitted onto his face at the thought of doing something secretive. "Yeah, okay." Then a belated, "Sir."

Snape studied him for a long moment before letting go. The man stepped into the lab. Harry followed close behind, straining to see around Snape's billowing robes.

The room, which had been so clean the day before, was now strewn with packages. Many were stacked on counters, but most were piled on the floor in little heaps and lumps. Stepping carefully around them – not knowing if they were piled in some sort of system – Harry followed Snape to the chairs on the other side of the room. Several of the parcels Harry recognized from the owl barrage at lunch. But there were many more packages than could have been delivered during lunch. "What are we doing?"

"Is it not obvious?" the man drawled, draping himself across the chair with a groan. The man shot him a sharp look when Harry continued to gaze at him, confused. "We're dealing with all these packages."

"Oh." Harry flushed as he looked around. It _was_ a bit obvious. "What's in them?"

Snape closed his eyes and placed a hand against his temple. "I am reminded again I need to thank the Sorting Hat for not putting you in Slytherin. I would have gone mad months ago," he muttered.

Harry settled into the other chair, reaching for a close by package. "Well, don't thank the Hat," he muttered. He peered at the tiny handwriting, not able to make out what it said.

With a quick movement, the white parcel was removed from his fingers. "Explain your comment," the man said. He flicked a glance at the package, then handed it back.

Harry blinked at him, quietly accepting the lightweight parcel. "Um… the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin. I had to talk it out of the idea."

The man stared at him with a slight frown on his face. Harry was just starting to squirm under the gaze when Snape blinked and looked away, swiftly picking up another parcel. With a quick movement of his fingers, the wrapping fell away and small, dried flowers were revealed. Snape peered at them closely before nodding and grabbing a vial off the shelf overhead. The flowers went in, the label carefully written on.

"I am expecting exceptionally neat handwriting, not your usual scribbling," the man said, crumpling up the wrapping and tossing it into the fire burning in the middle of the room. "Name and date." It wasn't until then that Snape glanced over at Harry. The man paused his reach for another parcel, arching an eyebrow.

Caught staring and not moving, Harry blinked and looked down at the parcel Snape had set in his hands. He pulled on the seal, opening it to find a selection of long, thin objects. They were dark at one end with lighter bands at the other. Carefully picking one up, he rolled it around in his fingers.

A book thumped onto the table in front of him. "Porcupine quills," Snape said with an evil twist to his voice. "Make sure you go through them carefully. I only want ingredients of the highest quality. Name and date, Potter. Nice handwriting."

"Oh," Harry said again as he finally caught on to what they were doing. Restocking Snape's destroyed potions lab. Glancing around at the hundreds upon hundreds of packages, Harry suppressed a sigh.

He'd been hoping for something fun. He'd almost have preferred Snape lying on the couch, ordering him to scrub the floor, than _this_. And none of this was 'secretive'. He shot an annoyed look at Snape before setting down the quill in his hand and reaching for the book Snape had given him.

Paging through the thick encyclopedia of potions ingredients, Harry found the page with porcupine quills. _Slight sheen and perfectly straight for maximum effect_, it read. _Quills taken without harm to the animal are best. _Harry glanced back at the quill in his hand, then poked the rest with an unimpressed finger. They all seemed straight. Who'd ever heard of a not-straight porcupine quill?

Reaching up for a vial, he grabbed one that seemed tall enough for the quills. He dumped them in, picking up one of the labels to write on.

A white hand reached out and snagged his hand before he could start to write. "Mr. Potter," the voice was tight and dark. "Did you go through those carefully?"

Harry glanced at the vial. "Yeah, they're all straight."

"How," the man said slowly, "do we test for straightness?"

"I looked at them?" Harry was already feeling his heart sink. There was no way that was right. He searched around in his mind for something else.

"That is how one tests for straightness if they don't care about the ingredient." The cold fingers vanished and Harry drew his hand into his lap, rubbing it against his leg. Snape wrote a note on another vial and set it on the shelf. Harry noted it was Snape's third. "Tell me, what potion uses porcupine quills?"

Harry blinked, rummaging through the potions he knew by heart. There were sadly few. Then an image of Neville covered in boils appeared in his head. "Boils," he murmured, running with the thought. Then he brightened and with a louder voice said, "Cure for boils."

The man sent a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Will wonders never cease," the man muttered, "he gets it right. And what happens if we add broken porcupine quills to a cure for boils?"

"It doesn't work?" Harry guessed.

Another package was opened by Snape's nimble fingers. He paused, examining the tiny rock-like items. Several that looked no different to Harry's eyes were set aside. The rest were poured into a small vial. "It doesn't work," Snape parroted with a shake of his head. "In a extremely basic potion like a boil cure, one doesn't care about the quality of the ingredients. It is quite hard to screw up."

Harry nodded. The boil cure was one of the few potions everyone had gotten right on the first try. Well, except for Neville and Ron.

"However, when one starts to get into the finer potions, such as those I would brew in my personal lab, even the smallest imperfection can destroy hours, days, or even weeks of work." Snape's hand snaked out and upended the vial, sending all the porcupine quills back onto the table. "Try again."

Harry stared down at the quills, tapping his finger against the table. _Now_ he wanted Hermione to show up, if only to ask her the proper technique for testing the straightness of porcupine quills. She no doubt would be able to explain it to him – then give him two alternate methods should the first fail.

He was just about the screw up the courage to ask when a white finger snuck into his vision and rolled one of the quills back and forth in a quick motion.

"Thanks," Harry muttered, taking a second to roll each of the quills before dropping them into the vial. Four of the quills wobbled unsteadily while being rolled. Harry set those aside. This time, when he reached for a label, no hand grabbed his to stop him. The first vial up on the shelf, Harry crinkled up the wrappings and turned on his chair to lob it into the fire. He watched the paper burn.

When he turned around, another package was sitting in front of him. Glancing up at the shelf, he saw his one vial sitting next to Snape's seven. He rolled his eyes as he quietly opened another parcel. This one he recognized - little white berries. "Mistletoe," he muttered.

Snape made a noise in his throat as Harry paged through the book to find the section on mistletoe berries. _Berries should be small, white, and have a waxy appearance. Any berries with blemishes should be removed before use._ He rolled the berries around in his hand. All of them looked fine, but he peered at them closely before carefully dumping them into a vial. He glanced at Snape as he reached for the labels. When the man made no move to stop him, Harry carefully wrote out the label and set the vial on the shelf.

It was several vials later that Harry couldn't take the silence anymore. Snape had dozens of glass vials settled on the shelf with no indication of wanting to stop or take a break. Harry fiddled with the next package. "This is fun," he said, trying for something like conversation.

Snape paused and sent a look at him. After a moment, the man made a noise in the back of his throat and went back to work.

Momentary stymied, Harry slit the parcel open and stared down at tiny blue snail shells. "What do you make with all these ingredients, anyways?"

"Bottle fame," the man drawled after a beat of silence. "Brew glory. Stopper death."

"You've said that before," Harry muttered, running a finger through the odd-looking snail shells. The shells sounded like little bells when they hit each other. Arching an eyebrow, Harry ran his finger through them again.

He was most of the way through a third pass when Snape reached out to grab his hand. "Those are chirming snails, and by the sound of them, perfectly acceptable."

"Chirming snails?" Harry picked one up, studying it, before dropping it into a vial. It rang against the glass. "Neat." He noticed that Snape's eyes were closed, so he quickly poured in the rest, wincing slightly at the noise. When the sound dimmed, Harry quickly wrote out the label. "What do you use those in?"

"_Felix Felicis._"

Harry looked up after setting the vial carefully on the shelf. "What's that?"

"Liquid luck," the man murmured, setting several more vials on the shelf. The shelf was getting full. "One day of being the luckiest man on the planet."

Harry perked up at the idea. There were a lot of days he could use a bit more luck. "When do we learn to brew that?"

"You don't." Snape drummed his fingers on the table, studying the shelf in front of them. "It takes a potion master six months to brew, and it is potentially fatal if even the smallest detail is not done correctly."

"Are you planning on brewing it?"

Snape's eyes turned to him. Green gazed into black. "Not any time soon, hopefully." He went back to gazing at the shelf.

Harry felt a brief flash of happiness at the thought that Snape would consider them done, shelf full. Maybe he could go back and finish his picture of the centaur and send it to Neville. But Snape just dug out his wand, waved it a few times, and all the bottles scattered themselves around the room to the other shelves. Harry watched them go, then turned back to the now-empty shelf. He couldn't quite bite back the sigh.

"I thought this was 'fun'," the man drawled into the silence.

Harry bit his lip. "Overdosing on the fun." He reached for another package. This one was filled with dried slugs. He poked at them with a disgusted look on his face. "What could you possibly use dried slugs for?"

This time the sigh was from Snape. "You are over your silent period, I see. The incessant prattling is back." He flipped through the encyclopedia, stopping on a page and tapping his finger on the entry for _Sub-Arctic Spotted Slugs (dried)._

"Just wanted to talk," Harry grumbled, pulling the book closer to read the caption. _Slugs should have dark brown spots with white between, uniformly shriveled to indicate even drying._ "Don't you get sick of it being quiet all the time?"

The man made a noise in his nose.

Harry let out a breath, starting to pick through the snails and deposit the ones with the darkest spots into the vial, resigning himself to silence until supper.

"Your mother didn't do well with silence either."

Harry froze between dropping slugs into the vial. Barely daring to breathe, he glanced up at Snape. The man wasn't even looking over at him, instead was picking through a collection of reddish berries. He picked up one, rolled it around in his fingers, then set it on the table next to the dried slugs.

"These are inkberries. Muggles used to use the juice to write and draw with, due to its dark color. Wizards commonly use them in a potion to help develop photographs."

Harry picked up the berry and rolled it around on his palm. It was hard and smooth, like a marble. Little streaks of white marred the dark red surface. While neat to know, he'd been hoping for more about his mother. Snape, however, detested talking about Lily Potter. Harry would just have to get used to the little bits and pieces he learned of her. He set the berry back down, reaching for the last of the slugs.

"It was one of the potions your mother could brew blindfolded." Snape's voice was very soft. He had picked up another berry and was studying it closely, rolling it between his long, white fingers. "She loved wizard photographs." He shook his head faintly.

Harry, after dropping the last dark-spotted slug into the vial, snuck the berry Snape had given him into his pocket. He glanced at Snape. The man was silent, studying the faint sheen of the berry, rolling it back and forth and back and forth.

Suddenly the man reached out and snatched up the vial of slugs. He glared into it, shaking it to see the slugs, then examined the three that remained on the table. The vial was set down with a bit more force the absolutely necessary. "Not _entirely_ horrible, Potter. Go make some tea, I will be up momentarily."

Clearly dismissed, Harry stumbled from the stool and slipped from the potions lab. Grateful to be away, but still wanting to hear more about his mother, Harry hesitated in the hallway before he closed the door to the lab. He looked back. Snape was sitting still, his head bowed over the little red berries. Feeling like he was intruding on something he shouldn't, he quietly closed the door.

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...

It took Snape nearly a half-hour to show up for tea. By that point, the water had turned cold and the tea was mostly ruined. Harry – already finished with his – chewed on a biscuit and watched Snape walk slowly to the table.

The man took a sip of the cold, over-brewed tea. Harry braced himself.

Snape set the cup down with a gentle click, his eyes closed. There was tension in his shoulders, his lips twitching with the effort to stay closed. What finally came out was undoubtedly edited many times over in the man's mind. "Can you not even brew tea properly?" There was a dark moodiness to the man's voice that was startling. Anger. Hatred.

Something had ticked him off. Perhaps Harry had really botched up the potion ingredients sorting.

Harry swallowed his bite of biscuit. He debated between apologies while groveling – a tactic that would have appeased his uncle – and merely stating the truth. Snape was practically trembling with contained emotion. Harry flipped a coin in his head and winced when it came down on 'truth'. "It was tea twenty minutes ago," he said.

Tightening his jaw, Snape's eyes flickered open to glare at Harry. There were little movements near the corner of his lips again. Then, "Do you not know how to cast a simple warming charm?"

Going for broke on the 'truth' idea, Harry shook his head. "No."

Both teacups shattered. Harry leapt to his feet, eyes wide, as Snape placed his hands slowly on the table. Seconds of silence passed. Snape's hand waved at the broken pieces of china and they jumped into the air, fixing themselves. The man gazed at the cup – now surrounded by a puddle of cold tea – then up at Harry.

Harry took a step backwards, not wanting to be the next subject of Snape's wrath. While he was sure the man would put him together again afterwards, but it would undoubtedly hurt in the meantime.

Something flickered in Snape's gaze. When he abruptly stood, Harry could quite hold back the flinch. That same something flickered again in the man's eyes.

"I believe I am overly tired," the man said. His voice was tight and clipped. "Clean this up and be silent."

Harry nodded, watching Snape stalk from the kitchen. The door to the bedroom slammed shut. He stood still and silent for a long time. Then he whispered, "What was that about?"

After wiping up the tea and rinsing out the dishes, Harry vanished to the tiny den. He pulled the little red berry out of his pocket and rolled it around on his palm before setting it next to the picture of his mother on the swing. Then he started to quietly dig around for a potions book, determined to figure out how to brew a photograph developing potion. If his mother could do it, so could he.

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**To be continued...**


	27. Chapter 26: The Second Potion

**Reminder: contest for this story up at cordria. deviantart. com**

**Thanks to mischabren, notwritten, Wilona Riva, GOKOA, saggyherman, Zireael07, snapemartyr, b00kw0rm92, Nightshade's sydneylover150, and DarkRavie for their awesome reviews!**

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**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

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Two days after Harry found the potion recipe for developing wizard photographs, Harry found himself sitting at Snape's kitchen table, paging through catalogs in search of a cheap camera. It had finally occurred to him that he'd need one if he were going to attempt to brew photography-developing potions, and the house elves had been very helpful in digging up mail order catalogs for him to dig through.

There was a knock at the door. Harry pushed himself away from the table and opened the door, grinning up at the mediwitch. "Hi, Madam Pomfrey."

She smiled at him and patted his cheek. "My letters asking the two of you to come up and get checked out seem to have gotten lost," she said brightly. "So I thought I'd come myself."

Biting back a smile, Harry let her in and shut the door. There went the mystery of the bits of paper Snape had been glaring at over the past few days. "Snape's in his lab. I'll go get him."

"No need, dear. I know where his lab is."

The mediwitch headed through the apartment with a purposeful air and Harry wandered back to the table, flipping through a few more pages. He hadn't been very successful at finding a camera - wizards seemed to sell almost everything by mail order and the catalogs were apparently organized with a system Harry couldn't recognize.

"_Severus Snape!"_

Harry flinched at the sharp yell. He jerked his head up to look down the hallway. There was the loud _bang_ of a door closing and the mediwitch's voice muffled. Gazing down the dark hallway, Harry briefly considered getting closer to listen in, but then decided his life wasn't worth the effort. Neither of the two adults would be in a good mood during this conversation, and the hallway didn't exactly leave any places to hide. Perhaps, if it went on long enough, he could sneak a trip to the toilet. The bathroom _was _right across the hall from the lab.

Finally managing to find the right section of the catalog, Harry started to read over the cameras and their prices. Most of them made him wince – wizard cameras were much more expensive than Muggle ones – but he found a few that he figured he could afford. He'd even gotten as far as circling the three he liked the best when there was another _bang _from down the hallway.

"I do not need-" Snape's voice was annoyed. The sound of his shoes clicked in perfect time as he strode down the hallway.

"-headaches. Do not come to me!" The woman's voice overrode Snape's for a moment.

"I know how to cure a headache," the man ground out as he strode into the kitchen and fixed Harry with a short glare. "Why did you let this creature into my apartment?"

Harry had just enough to blink before the mediwitch stormed in behind Snape. Her hands were on her hips and there was an evil gleam in her eye. Harry shrank back slightly even though it wasn't trained on him.

"Temporarily _fix_ a headache. Headaches you shouldn't _have_. Headaches you _caused_ by-"

"There are things in this world more important than the health of one person," Snape interrupted. He stalked over to the cabinets and pulled down a teacup, setting the kettle on the stove.

Harry arched an eyebrow at that. He'd recently come to the conclusion that tea for Snape was something like cigars for Uncle Vernon or vacuuming for Aunt Petunia. Something that came out when under stress.

"In my opinion," Madam Pomfrey said with a tap of her toe, "nothing is more important."

Snape glared down at the kettle, fingers white-knuckled around the edge of the counter, then sighed darkly and tapped the kettle with his wand. It instantly started to whistle, steam coming from the vent. "It is no longer up for debate," he said, settling down at the table and starting to fix himself a cup of tea. "Do Potter's exam."

There was an empty silence. Snape quietly took a sip of his tea, his body visibly relaxing against the kitchen chair. Madam Pomfrey continued to glare at him a moment more, then shook her head. "I hope whatever it was that couldn't have waited forty-eight hours is worth the pain, Severus." Her eyes turned to Harry. "Up you get."

Harry got to his feet, holding out his arms so the mediwitch could run a quick scan on him. The magic tingled over his skin, causing him to blink a few times and shift from foot to foot. A bit of parchment appeared in the air beside his head, a quill starting to scribble on it in jerky movements.

"I have a mind healer coming next week to speak with you," she said as she looked over the results of the scan. "I'll send _you_ a note as to when to expect him." A sharp look in Snape's direction accompanied the comment. "Otherwise, you seem to be healing fine."

"Thanks," Harry said, letting his arms fall to his side.

She pointed to a bit of the parchment. "Your magic levels have increased quite a bit since the beginning of the year. Not a problem, I'll just want to run another check when school starts again." Her eyes found his. "Do _you_ remember where the hospital wing is?"

Harry nodded, trying not to look in Snape's direction.

"I'll expect you the first month of school, then. I'll send you a reminder." She rolled up the parchment and smiled. "If all goes well with the mind healer, you should be home for your birthday."

Fixing the smile on his face, Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Awesome," he said. The smile didn't quite reach his voice.

"_If_ all goes well," she said, her voice slow and deliberate, "with the healer, that is."

Harry blinked up at her, taking a second to catch what she meant. "They're just muggles," Harry muttered, rocking back on his heels. But his mind worked through that long after the mediwitch patted his cheek again, glared at Snape, and then vanished through the door back into the school.

Letting a breath out his nose, Harry dropped into a kitchen chair. He reached for his catalog, only to find it trapped under Snape's long fingers. Looking up into the man's piercing eyes, Harry felt like some sort of a bug under glass. Then the fingers retracted and Harry pulled the catalog to him.

A steaming cup of tea followed the catalog. Harry nodded a quiet thank you, sipping at it. Unlike the normally bitter tea Snape seemed to like, this one was sweet.

He found himself staring out the window as he slowly drank his tea.

Thinking.

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Several nights later, Harry was deep asleep when a hand grabbed his shoulder. It shook him roughly from his dreams. Harry blinked groggily up at the shadowy intruder, reaching for his glasses. "What?"

"You are required." It was Snape.

Then the man was gone. Harry lay there surrounded by the warmth of the purple-stained blankets long enough to consider drifting back to sleep. It was only Snape's wrath that drove him to his feet. Mind filling with the image of the teacups shattering, Harry slipped his feet into slippers and threw on a robe. Fighting back a yawn, Harry stumbled into the apartment.

The only light came from the main door to the apartment – Snape had left it wide open. With a groan, Harry walked towards the door. His eyes watered at the bright light, pausing at the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust.

"You are taking forever," Snape muttered. "I haven't got all night, Potter."

"Couldn't you do this at a normal time?" Harry asked, finding his voice had a bit of whine to it. "Like, not at night?" But he stepped into the hallway and followed the man to the main potions lab several doors away.

Snape looked up at him. The man looked horrendously awake for one o'clock in the morning. "This potion can only be brewed under a full moon," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Hurry up."

Rubbing a hand over his face, Harry pushed open the door to the lab. The room was clean and empty. The long student tables had been set up with sets of smaller cauldrons, each with a tiny fire and a potion bubbling away inside. The large cauldron in the middle of the room hissed and gurgled.

He walked up to the main cauldron, peering inside at a strange orange liquid as he settled onto a stool near it. "What are we making?"

"Has your small mind still not figured it out?" The man appeared next to him, sprinkling something into the cauldron and handing Harry a long metal stick. "Stir, anticlockwise, precisely eight times." He paused, eyes narrowed. "You can count to eight, can't you?"

"Yessir," he said, sticking the metal rod into the cauldron and starting to stir. He had a moment of panic when he forgot if he were on four or five, but managed to decide he'd really been on five. He pulled the rod out after eight turns, watching the potion slide from orange to a deep red.

"Adequate." The rod was taken from Harry's hands. "Explain the point of this potion."

Harry stared at him, his brain not yet fully awake. "I don't know-"

The man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Attempt it." His voice brooked no argument.

With a sigh, Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Uh… " He looked around the room, searching for something – _anything_ that would give him a clue. It wasn't some normal potion, that he knew, not if it had to be brewed under the full moon. There was that one thing he learned in Astronomy. "Well, it's the full moon." When Snape just arched an eyebrow, Harry continued. "The full moon usually signifies change, or transformation. Coming to…" he trailed off, scratching at his head. Astronomy wasn't his best subject even when he was fully awake. "Becoming what things are meant to be."

Another ingredient was added to the potion. This made it hiss loudly. Harry blinked at the potion. He could have sworn the potion had tried to talk.

"And…"

Wincing slightly, Harry looked back up at his potions teacher. "So this potion is going to change something." He yawned, tired of playing twenty questions instead of sleeping.

Snape's fingers were cold as they set a bunch of live snails into his hand. "Add one every time the colors starts to change," he ordered. "And what about the Stone?"

"It's destroyed," Harry told him, confused. He looked up, away from the potion, but Snape glared at him until he looked back. There was a swirl of blue and Harry tossed in a snail. It vanished into the bubbling liquid, returning the potion to its red state. The other snails in his hand seemed to twitch in terror, realizing their time was coming quickly. "We turned it into a potion last week, remember? That's kind of the end of that."

Snape's lips thinned. He pulled up a stool on the other side of the potion. "You have a remedial knowledge of potions, as much as I am loathe to admit it." The man eyed him. "Describe for me what would happen were you to combine a powerful transformative base with the basic properties of the Stone."

"But the Stone's-" A hand came up and Harry broke off.

"I will not accept prattling as an answer."

Harry's teeth ground slightly. He tossed in another snail, imagining it screaming as it flew through the air, and decided he might as well attempt to answer the question. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could go back to bed. Although he didn't seem to be doing anything Snape couldn't have done – the man was just sitting there, after all. "The Stone makes you live forever. If you change that…" He rubbed at the side of his head. His brain didn't seem to be working right. "Makes you die?" he tried, already knowing it was wrong.

The look on Snape's face made Harry wince. "No."

Focusing down on the potion, Harry hoped if he were silent long enough, Snape would simply fill in the answer for him.

Eventually, Harry was correct. "The Stone changes your ultimate fate in the universe. It doesn't make you live forever, it simply does not allow you to suffer the fate of death while under its effects. The transformative properties of this potion will change the purpose of the Stone."

"So I was right," Harry brightened, "at least sort of. The Stone will do something else."

Snape's lips thinned again. "This potion will allow its drinker to change fate. To hold destiny in his hands and choose which path to follow."

Harry found his eyebrows raising as he stared down at the hissing, fizzing potion. That seemed impressive, except… "Can't you just choose anyways?" he asked. "I mean, I don't need a potion to choose if I'm going to Hogwarts next year. Or what shirt I'm going to wear tomorrow. What's the point?"

"There are many things in this world that are beyond those simple choices, child." Snape's voice was harsh. "You would not choose to be hit by a bludger tomorrow and die, and yet that may well be your fate. Or you might be fated to life your entire life alone, despite your best efforts to the contrary."

Harry shifted his weight on the stool. "Yeah, but you're not going to know stuff like that until after it happens. And then it's a bit too late for a potion, isn't it?"

Snape arched an eyebrow. "_Now_ the child can use logic." He got up and stalked across the lab, collecting a few more supplies. He came back just as Harry was tossing in snail number three. Setting a few things on a table nearby, Snape said, "That's the problem with this potion. You have to _know_ the future in order to change it."

Running his tongue over his teeth, Harry thought that through. "So you'd have to be able to tell the future. Like a fortune teller." Snape nodded, dropping a blue stone into the potion. The cauldron began to steam and Snape took the remaining snails from Harry's hand. "How do you do that? Tell the future?" Harry asked.

Snape snorted. "You can't. No one knows the future, Potter. Only the addled and foolish believe in such nonsense." He shook his head firmly. "Prophecies and the like."

Harry tapped his slippered feet against the stool legs. "Does Dumbledore believe in prophecies?"

Snape was quiet, softly counting to himself as he stirred. "Get the next ingredient."

Harry blinked at the non-answer, trying to puzzle it out, but when Snape glanced up at him with a slight narrowing of his eyes, Harry slid off the school. With a glance at the book spread on the table, Harry poked through the supplies on the table and grabbed seven strands of the grass. He walked over to the cauldron, still stewing on the mystery of what Snape wasn't telling him, and handed the grass over.

Snape blinked at the proffered ingredient, then at Harry. The blank look on his face made Harry stop and glance down at the ingredient. To his surprise, his fingers were turning red. "What the…"

There was a dark sigh as the man grabbed Harry's hand, taking the pallid grass and dropping it in. "Will you never learn?" he muttered, half dragging Harry away from the cauldron. Snape grabbed a vial of salve and started smearing it on Harry's hand.

"What's wrong with my hand?"

Snape didn't pause. "You are not that dense, Potter. Try thinking it over."

Harry's eyes cut over to the ingredients, then finally the answer popped into his head. "Oh," he whispered.

"Oh," Snape parroted with a nasty twist to his voice. "That's, right, I'm allergic."

Harry scowled and glared down at his toes, waiting for Snape to finish with his hand. "You told me-"

"There are plenty of ways to get potions ingredients other than touching them. For example…" Snape trailed off, the 'finish the sentence for me' obvious.

Harry took a deep breath. "Gloves, I guess. Or tweezers, or whatever."

"Very eloquent, Potter," Snape muttered. His fingers released Harry's hand.

Harry pulled it against his chest, studying the redness spreading across his palm. It was starting to itch.

"Can we continue?" Snape said, sweeping back towards the cauldron. "This potion is of utmost importance, and the timing is crucial. We do not have another Stone to destroy to try this twice."

Harry quietly flexed his fingers a few times, then scratched his palm with his other hand.

"Now, Your Highness. "

Harry rubbed his hand against the front of his robe and slid over to the cauldron. Snape was pouring drop after drop of a mint-smelling oil into the slowly swirling liquid, watching the cauldron change to a brilliant gold. There was a gleam in the professor's eye as he watched his potion simmer and steam. "Perfect," Snape whispered.

He carefully set down the stirring rod and pulled out two small vials of pure silver. He held one out to Harry. Taking it, Harry recognized it. "Hey, this is the potion we made earlier…" he trailed off, realizing Snape would know that.

Snape let out a small snort. "That is the boiled down essence of a Sorcerer's Stone. There are only a small handful of people since the dawn of time who have ever held such a rare potion." Snape fixed him with a glare as Harry shifted, awkwardly trying to scratch at his hand. "Do not drop it."

Harry looked up at him. "I wasn't going to drop it," he grumbled.

Snape snorted. "The souls that were trapped in the Stone are now in that potion – souls that are tied to your blood and your future."

"Mine?" Harry interrupted, holding up the potion to study it. Something dark swirled inside and Harry shuddered.

"You gave it your blood," Snape said, stirring the potion with a ladle.

Harry felt his stomach swirl. "Why mine?" Harry asked softly. "I'm just Harry… "

Snape studied him for a long moment. "You are the Boy Who Lived and many people have great futures planned for you." Snape pulled a ladle of the potion out of the cauldron and waited. "Your vial?"

Harry blinked, then pulled out the stopper and held it out. Snape carefully filled the vial up the rest of the way.

"Mix."

Harry swirled the vial, watching the silver and gold twirl into a glittery mass. "So… now I can change something about my future?" Harry held the vial up, gazing at the strange, liquid metal.

"No." The vial was snatched from his fingers, the stopper carefully replaced. "As I told you earlier, you need to know the future in order to change it." Harry watched Snape quietly secrete a second silver-gold potion into his robes – the potion that was tied to Snape's blood.

"So then what's the point of the potion?" he asked, but Snape was apparently done answering questions.

"Quiet, now." Snape gestured towards the ingredients and stalked from the room.

After pausing to thoroughly rub his itchy hand against his robes, Harry grabbed an armload of the potion ingredients and lugged them towards a small storage closet. Harry couldn't quite help grumbling softly to himself. He was halfway through setting the ingredients on the shelves when the door to the lab clicked open. Harry paused and glanced out the small storage room. Dumbledore walked across the room, completely silent, and peered into what was left of the golden liquid still simmering in the cauldron.

"Headmaster," came Snape's voice.

"Ah, Severus, I see your potion was successful."

Snape crossed his arms over his chest and arched an eyebrow. "Of course."

Dumbledore frowned slightly. "Still not quite pleased with me?"

Snape's eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. Then he fished out the silver-gold potion and held it out with two pale fingers. "I hope all these antics are well worth the results."

"Thank you, Severus." The potion was gone again just as quickly as it had appeared.

The itching in his hand becoming unbearable, Harry shifted to scratch his hand against his leg.

Dumbledore glanced in his direction, the ever-present twinkle in his eye brighter than ever. "Harry! Well on the mend?"

Harry's eyes drifted from the Headmaster to Snape and back as he nodded.

"You will remember the limitations on the potion." Snape turned around and headed out of the room. "Come along, Potter. You can finish putting those ingredients away in the morning."

Harry hesitated a moment, then closed the door to the storage closet and followed Snape from the room. "Good night, Headmaster," he said as he passed Dumbledore.

"Have happy dreams, Harry."

Harry glanced back once, then hurried from the room. Snape was striding down the corridor towards his apartment. The man didn't stop his brisk walk until he was at the door, pushing it open and standing there, waiting like a dark shadow. Unlike most people, who would tap a toe or shift in annoyance, Snape was quiet and still, only his dark eyes displaying the lack of patience.

Harry stepped into the room and Snape shut the door with a click. Harry stood still, watching as Snape stalked from the kitchen counter to the table, then back to the counter, setting up a kettle for tea. Snape set the kettle on the stove to heat, but then seemed to lose patience with the stove and simply spelled the water hot again. It wasn't until Snape had the steaming cup in his hands, settled at the kitchen table, eyes closed, that Harry found the nerve to move.

"He's got _my_ potion, doesn't he?" Harry dared ask.

Snape's fingers tightened ever-so-slightly against the cup.

"So, then, he can control my future…"

"No," Snape said sharply. "Nobody controls anyone's future. Not even a potion can do that."

Harry was quiet. "Then why…" Harry couldn't finish his question, not entirely sure what he was trying to ask. He just pulled out one of the other kitchen chairs and settled into it.

They sat quiet for a long moment before a teacup sparkled into existence in front of him on the table. It was that sweet tea again – the kind he liked. He slowly sipped at it, letting his strange professor relax. "Wish I could have kept it," Harry muttered quietly at one point when Snape set down the teacup with a final sounding click.

"Why would you want to keep such a powerful potion?"

"I thought you said it was useless," Harry muttered.

Snape studied him. "Powerful and useful are not necessarily the same."

Harry stopped, tilting his head a little, then shook his head. "Yeah, okay. I just… I had something I kinda wanted to change."

Snape tapped his finger on the edge of his cup. "It is evidence of my current mindset that I am letting your destruction of the English language go." His eyes narrowed. "And that I am continuing this inane line of thought. What is this wondrous thing you wanted to change?"

Harry studied the bits of tea still in the bottom of his cup. "Well," he said, "I know where I'm going every summer for the next few years." Harry was quiet, then shrugged. "I just thought… maybe… I could go somewhere else."

Snape let out a soft snort. "It is best the potion is out of your grasp, then. With that level of detail, who knows what would have happened. Although, a summer break in Antarctica might do you well."

The smallest smile snuck onto Harry's face. "Do you know what Dumbledore's going to do with the potion?"

Snape was quiet, then picked up his teacup and grabbed Harry's. "To bed."

Harry stared for a minute, then sighed and headed towards his cot, tucked away in Snape's den.

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**To be continued...**


	28. Chapter 27: The Mind Healer's Decision

**_Reminder: If you want to be part of the contest, entries are due FRIDAY!_**

**Last chapter should be up Friday! :)  
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**Thanks to The arithmancer, enchantedlight, notwritten, EbonyWing, .newyork, Sailor GaOn Donut, geetac, saggyherman, MsFrizzle, almightyswot, LilyIsAwesomerThanYou, Wilona Riva, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet, biancaruth, irezel, DarkRavie, and B00kw0rm92 for the fabulous reviews!  
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**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

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In the early hours of the morning, Harry stuttered awake, sitting up in his cot and staring around the den in panic. Something had woken him up. A sound. A movement.

He reached for his wand when something disconnected from the shadows and stepped up to his bed. Half-forgotten memories of the dream he'd been having flooded through his mind - dusty images of the Dark Lord, stuttering professors, and cold fingers on his forehead. Harry stared at the shadowy figure in panic, knowing that this wasn't a dream.

"The Dark Lord is far away. Go to sleep."

At the cold sound of Snape's voice, Harry's panic subsided, the last visages of the dream faded away. His heartbeat slowed and he relaxed back down against the pillows. "Sorry if I woke you," he muttered.

Snape let out an irritated noise. "Go to sleep, Potter."

The door opened and closed, leaving Harry alone in the room. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, counting the passing minutes until he was sick of it. Then he sat up, pushed his glasses on his nose, and lit the end of his wand. He pulled the Darke Creatures book into his lap and opened up to a random page. Mountain spirits.

Little curls of darkness crept onto the page. Harry brushed them away irritably. "Go away."

The door clicked open again and Harry looked up. Snape was standing in the doorway, peering down at him. "I expressly told you to go to sleep."

"I can't sleep," Harry murmured, shutting the book with a sigh. "What's with this book, anyway?"

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Now, in English?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "There's dark magic in this book. And I know it makes me read it."

"Anyone with basic magical control could fight a mild compulsion charm," Snape said blandly.

"Compulsion charm?" Harry picked up the book, flipping it over and over in his hands. "That's it? How come that's dark magic?"

Snape scowled. "Do you truly not pay attention in class or was Quirrell simply that bad of a teacher?" He narrowed his eyes. "Any spell that takes away free will is considered dark magic."

"Oh, I thought…" Harry trailed off, shrugging. "Isn't dark magic illegal?"

"Compulsion charms and Veratiserum are far from the darkest magic out there. And the Ministry finds them useful." Snape let out a breath. "It is four in the morning, Potter. You should get some sleep. The mind healer will be here tomorrow."

Harry gazed down at the dark magic curling around the book. "Why now?" he asked.

Snape frowned. "Madam Pomfrey scheduled the healer a week ago, Potter. This is not a surprise-"

"No," he said, "I mean the dark magic thing. How come now I can see it? And not before?"

Snape's lips thinned. "There are many possibilities. Perhaps you simply became old enough. Perhaps it was enough near brushes with death. Perhaps it was your proximity to the Dark Lord. Perhaps it was none of those things and you are just decisively unlucky. Whatever it is, it is better pondered after a night's rest." Snape stalked into the room and held out a tiny vial. It glittered in Harry's wand light. "Sleep. Now."

Harry took the potion quietly, running his fingers over the cold glass.

"And do be careful around the rest of my books," Snape said as he stalked out of the room. "Not all books with dark magic have simple compulsion charms."

Harry set the book on the small side table, unstoppering the potion and draining it. He shuddered at the taste. Setting the vial and his glasses on the table, Harry sank down into his pillows and stared up at the ceiling.

It didn't take long for Snape's potion to start working. His eyes drifted closed and sleep pulled him into the darkness.

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Severus Snape walked back to his bedroom, casting a disillusionment charm on himself. He silently pushed open then door and gazed inside. A slightly glowing, short creature was floating above his bed, cackling to itself. It held a silver and gold vial in its hands.

No emotion drifted across the man's face as he watched the poltergeist toss the vial up and down a few times, muttering about payment. Although Snape's wand was in his hand, he just stood there. Waiting.

Then Peeves took off through the walls. Snape arched an eyebrow and headed quietly down the hallway. He stopped to glance into the den, noted that Potter was finally asleep, and then continued his way out the apartment and through the silent hallways. He whispered a spell and a slightly glowing blue light forming in front of him. It wavered left and right, before settling in front of him in an arrow shape.

Snape slipped through the halls, silent as a wraith. When he found himself at the front doors of the school, he pushed one open slightly and headed out into the darkness. The moon was just slightly past full. The stars glittered overhead. Peeves, glowing in the moonlight, was visible near the docks.

Snape's movement slowed. When he came closed enough to the ghost to hear its cackling, he stopped. Disillusioned and silent, Snape was unnoticeable.

Peeves was still playing with the vial. Up and down. Up and down. Then the ghost suddenly grabbed the potion and stuffed it into the crook of a lightning-scarred tree. "Done it," the poltergeist snorted, crossing its arms. It waited a moment, then vanished back towards the castle.

Snape continued to stand there, gazing blankly at the tree. His wand came up and there was a quick murmur of sound. Little swirls of blue illuminated around the tree. His wand came back down, tapping softly against his leg.

Then he turned and walked back to the castle, leaving the potion outside. The door closed with a solid clunk behind him. Snape was all the way back to his apartment before he stopped. Still under the effects of the disillusionment, Snape dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

When the morning sunlight glinted through the windows, Snape finally waved away the disillusionment. He stood and walked over to the window, his face perfectly empty. He gazed out at the trees, watching them sway slightly in the wind, before closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath.

Outside, in a swirl of blue light, the potion vanished.

...

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...

The healer's name was Alice Albright. She had the sort of smile that ringed bright white teeth with red lipstick. Perched right at the edge of the hospital chair, she wove her fingers together on top of a clipboard and smiled at him again. "Mister… Potter." She drawled his name out slowly.

Harry glanced towards Madam Pomfrey. The mediwitch was pretending to be busy sorting potions onto a shelf.

"Can you explain to me why I'm here?"

Harry's gaze jumped back over to the healer. "Uh… Madam Pomfrey wanted you to talk to me?"

One of the healer's eyebrows arched. "About what?"

With a shrug, Harry shot a look back over at the mediwitch. "Stuff, I guess."

"Very specific." There was a bit of sarcasm in her voice. "Can you think of anything specific?"

There was silence as Harry found himself staring down at his fingertips. The last he'd heard, the Voldemort-Quirrell thing was supposed to be a secret. Almost everyone in the school knew, of course, but he wasn't sure he was supposed to mention it. Or what had happened over the summer.

"Mister Potter. May I call you Harry?"

Harry nodded, picking at a loose bit of skin near the nail of his middle finger.

"Harry, then. I _assure_ you," Healer Albright said as she reached out a hand a patted his knee, "that anything you say is in strict confidence. I can not and will not repeat it to anyone without your express permission."

Harry looked up, peering at her over the tops of his glasses. "Okay…"

She set a clipboard down in her lap and smiled at him. "Now. Can you think of anything that Madam Pomfrey might want you to talk about?"

"I guess," Harry started, his eyes drifting back down to his hands. His right hand was still red and itchy. He scratched at it distractedly, then wondered how many times his mother had to deal with itchy hands.

"And?"

With a start, Harry realized he hadn't actually thought of anything to say to the healer. He looked up. "Um… I guess there's the thing with the Dark Lord."

She nodded, looking horribly sympathetic. "When your parents died?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "I mean, a few months ago, when he tried to take over the body of my Defense professor and kill me, and then a month ago when he tried again..."

The healer's blue eyes blinked a few times. Her mouth opened, then closed. "You-know-who?" she finally managed to get out, sounding a bit dazed. With Harry's nod, she looked to her left.

Harry followed her gaze, his eyes settling on the slumped form of his potions professor. Snape eyed the mind healer, then nodded. "It was at the beginning of May."

"And this wasn't in the papers?" Her voice was a bit faint.

Snape's eyes narrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. "Of course not. The Dark Lord has not yet returned, he is merely an annoying spirit. Why incite a panic?"

"But-"

"You are here to talk to the boy," Snape said with a nasty turn to his voice. "I suggest you do so."

The healer pulled herself even straighter in the chair – Harry hadn't thought that possible – and turned her eyes back to Harry. He could almost see her pull a cloak of duty around her. "Yes, yes. Of course. Harry, and what happened exactly?"

Harry shrugged and fiddled with the bottom of his shirt. "He was trying to get the Sorcerer's Stone. You know, to live forever? And I ended up with it. I didn't mean to, but I thought that S…" He trailed off, and flushed as he tried not to look at Snape. "Someone was trying to get the Stone, so I went after it to find it first, and the Dark Lord was just there. Only he can't touch me, because my mother did something to prevent him from touching me…"

"Blood protection," Snape cut in when Harry's voice trailed off. "Specific to the Dark Lord."

Healer Albright shot him a glance. "How is that possible? Wouldn't that have required some of You-Know-Who's blood?"

Snape's mouth tightened into a frown. "We are not sure. Traditionally – yes, you would be correct."

The woman turned back to Harry slowly. Her head was tipped slightly to the side, a lock of brown hair dangling in her eyes. "And you said You-Know-Who was here again, a month ago?"

"Yeah." Harry's fingers were so tightly twined into the bottom of his shirt that his fingers were starting to hurt. He paused to yank them free. "He really wanted the Stone, I guess."

"I suppose." Harry heard the woman take a slow breath and let it out. "Must have been scary. I'd be having nightmares." She snorted softly. "I'm going to have nightmares just hearing you talk about it."

Harry glanced up at her as she pushed the lock of brown hair over her ear. There had been a real shudder in the healer's voice as she'd said that. "A few," Harry admitted, looking away again. The sun shone through the high, skinny windows of the hospital wing. Little white clouds scuttled across the sky.

"You want to tell me about them?"

Harry thought about that. How he dreamed about Voldemort attacking the castle, surrounded by all sorts of dark creatures large and small. How he'd imagined professors dying around him. Students dying. His friends lying cold on the ground at a crazy man's feet. How in so many of the nightmares, Voldemort turned into Snape. How, lately, that was the part that scared him the most – Snape vanishing. He opened his mouth to talk about one of the stories when he stopped.

A bird flew past the window. It was a dark shape with long, twisted tail feathers.

His eyes flickered over to his snarky potion professor. The man was sneering at something in the distance, his sharp eyes narrowed in a dangerous sort of way. Harry's brain wandered to the potion they had brewed the week before. A dangerous, expensive potion that Snape didn't even believe would work. So why did they make it?

Dumbledore had asked him to.

Snape had drunk from the goblet to destroy the Stone, knowing he'd have to give something huge up in exchange. Snape had allowed a child he hated to live in his apartment for two months. Snape had protected and chased down Harry when Voldemort had attacked the castle, putting himself in extreme danger in the process. And why?

Dumbledore had asked him to.

Harry's mouth clicked shut as he tore his eyes away from the potions professor and down to his fingers. There was one very real truth Harry had learned this summer: Snape trusted Dumbledore's plans.

_'There are things in this world more important than the health of one person.'_

Green eyes slid up to look at the mediwitch, still busy pretending to be sorting her new stock of potions. She must have noticed the attention, because she paused and glanced at him. There was a pleased look on her face.

'_If all goes well… back to the Dursleys.'_

"Harry?"

His gaze snapped back to Healer Albright. "Um…" The words bubbled up in his chest. It was all he ever wanted. Here was his chance. Just tell the healer and he'd get to stay at Hogwarts the rest of the summer…

_'You must go back to the Dursley's, my boy. They're your family. Surely you miss them.'_

Mouth dry, Harry blinked and glanced once more towards Snape. His hated, snarky, cruel, cold potions professor. The man's dark eyes were focused on him, but they were blank. Unhelpful.

But there. And Harry had the oddly pleasant realization that they always would be there. Sharp and vindictive and bitter, but there and focused on him.

"I…"

Dumbledore had… asked.

"I… don't really remember them very well," he said, stumbling slightly over the words. He couldn't look at the healer. "I just kind of wake up feeling a little scared. But it goes right away. And I haven't had a nightmare in a couple days, now."

Snape – who Harry was quite sure knew the real severity of Harry's nightmares – didn't say a word. He just sat there with his arms crossed, glowering at the world.

"Hmmm." The healer leaned forwards, resting a gentle hand on his knee again. "Harry."

"I'm fine," Harry insisted, this time forcing his gaze up to meet Healer Albright's blue eyes. He put a smile on his face. "Really."

There was an arched eyebrow. The healer didn't look at all convinced. "Harry…"

Harry swallowed, licked his lips, and went for it. In for a penny, in for a pound. "I just want to go home. See my aunt and uncle." He couldn't even begin to force any sort of happy emotion into his voice while talking about his relatives, but he was hoping the healer wouldn't care. "Sleep in my own bed." He leaned forwards. The woman's red lips were hard to not stare at. "Please?"

Her lips pursed. She looked over his shoulder at Madam Pomfrey.

"Professor Snape," the healer said, suddenly turning to the sour man, "have you seen any evidence that Mister Potter needs assistance from a healer over the next few months?"

"Potter needs all sorts of help," Snape said darkly. "But not in the way you're asking. He'll do fine at his relatives for the remainder of the summer."

"No nightmares?" she pressed.

Snape glared her down. "Potter is annoyingly arrogant and self-centered. Were he having nightmares, I assure you he'd be telling all about them simply to get the attention."

The healer was silent. "Is there _anything_ you need to talk me about?" she asked, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

Harry shook his head.

"Very well," the woman said, her gaze flitting from Harry to Snape. "I'm going to give you my card, Harry. Just in case you think of anything once you're at your relatives."

"Thanks." Harry took the card, staring down at the ink that shifted slowly from dark red to dark blue and back. "Can I go now?"

There was a quiet pause, then a small sigh. "Yes, Harry. You can go."

When Harry got to his feet and scuttled for the door, the Healer just stayed seated. Harry paused at the door, glancing back. Madam Pomfrey had a dark frown on her face, her eyes focused on Professor Snape. The man was stalking towards the door Harry was holding open, a bland look on his face. Snape paused just after he left the hospital wing, staring down the hallway with that empty expression.

Letting go of the door, Harry let it swing shut behind him. He bit his lip as he imagined the conversation that was about to take place in the hospital wing. "Madam Pomfrey doesn't look happy," Harry commented into the silence.

Snape's eyes shifted towards him. "I thought you professed a desire to not return to your relatives."

Harry shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "It's just one month."

There was a dark sound that came from Snape's throat. He studied Harry through the darkness, his head tipped slightly to the side. Then he turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, his robes billowing behind him. When Harry had to practically run to keep up, he could have sworn that Snape slowed his pace, just a bit.

Or maybe Harry's legs had just finally decided to start growing. It'd be about time.

...

.

...

Silver and gold shimmered in the darkness. A man wearing a dark hood held it up to the light.

"Is it real?" The whispery voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Long, slender fingers tilted the vial slightly, allowing a few drops of the precious potion to settle onto a piece of paper. The paper hissed and fizzled before turning to lead. The hand holding the paper let go and the sheet of lead dropped to the ground with a heavy clang. "It is, Master." The voice of the hooded man was a soft, gentle baritone.

"And it is active?"

"Yes, Master."

The bodiless laughter that curled through the air made the man in the hood shudder. "Good. Then we have a new plan."

"My Lord?" The man standing in the gloom pushed back his hood, revealing long, blond hair and aristocratic features.

"Knowledge is power," came the whispered response. "Prophecy…" There was silence. "You still have my book?"

The man nodded. "Of course, my Lord. The aurors have been getting close. I will have to move it to a new location soon."

"Perfect," the shadows whispered, curling around the silver and gold potion before the man secreted it into the depths of his robes. "To Hogwarts. Get my book to Hogwarts…"

...

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_**To be concluded...**_


	29. Epilogue

**Sorry this is a few days late, my router got sick last week. Which meant no internet. And, as I do not have cable, it meant I was trapped with only antenna-stations. Which, as I live in the flipping middle of nowhere, meant PBS. I watched a lot of shows about trains. But the DSL guy replaced my router yesterday and I am now live again!**

**Thanks to Wilona Riva, fanficfantasies, MsFrizzle, Sailor GaOn Donut, almightyswot, enchantedlight, Lumcer, saggyherman, biancaruth, notwritten, EbonyWing, DarkRavie, LilyIsAwesomerThanYou, Nightshade's sydneylover150, b00kw0rm92, and Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet for their awesome reviews!**

******Enjoy the last chapter. I appreciate you sticking with this for these last bunch of months!**

******I have a sequel planned, thus the way this ends. :) Keep an eye out!  
**

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**Allergic to** **Potions**  
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

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July 30th was a rather dismal day in Harry's opinion. He stood in the middle of the den he'd called home for the past two months, hands stuffed into his pockets, and found himself not wanting to leave. A month with the Dursleys weighed heavily on his mind.

"Are you packed yet?" came the annoyed shout.

"Almost," Harry called back, studying the room. Everything that could be considered _his_ was in his trunk, along with as many of the purple-stained sheets and blankets as he thought he could get away with taking. The pictures of his mother he'd dug out of the books were stacked neatly on a table. The frozen picture of her on the swing was in his pocket. He was going to ask if he could keep it.

Only one book still lay on the cot. Harry took a few steps forwards, reaching down to pick up the book. An Introduction on Darke Creatures: book one. He ran his thumb over the pages, flicking his fingers at the dark magic that crept towards him. He'd read the entire book over the past few weeks, from cover to compulsion-charmed cover. After tapping it against his hand a few times, Harry set it back down on the bed.

Scratching at the palm of his hand – which _still_ itched at times – Harry grabbed his trunk and dragged it from the room. The door to the den clicked closed behind him with a very final sound. Harry felt his heart drop a few inches.

"Finally. I have slow-acting molasses that moves faster than you." Snape was standing by the door, his arms crossed. The man ran his eyes over the clothes Harry had chosen to wear with a scowl.

Harry shrugged, looking around the purple-stained apartment. For the first time, Harry knew who he'd choose if he had to pick between Snape and Uncle Vernon.

The trunk's handle was taken from his grasp and a quick _reducio_ flipped through the air. Harry watched quietly as his trunk shrank to the size of a snuffbox and was handed back. "I have places to be, Potter. I don't have the desire to wait for your dawdling."

"Yes sir," Harry sighed, grabbing his cloak from the hook and following Snape out the door of his apartment.

The castle was silent. Nobody had come to wish him farewell – not even the headmaster. Their shoes sounded loud on the stone floors. Windows let in bits of the morning light that made patterns on the walls.

Harry let out a loud breath as they passed through the main doors and out into the courtyard. Words were clawing at his throat, wanting to be said, but Harry didn't have the nerve to say a single one of them. Not with Snape standing right beside him. Not after Harry had made the choice to go back to the Dursleys.

He looked back at the castle over his shoulder as they walked through the school's main gate. Hogwarts stood high and tall in the brilliant morning light, the thick granite glittering slightly. Shadows seemed to slink away from its walls, leaving the grass around its edges bright and green.

"Have you apparated before, Potter?"

Snape's hard voice brought Harry out of his musings. He shook his head. "No."

The man scowled slightly. "Come here."

Harry took a hesitant step forwards, but Snape just grabbed his arm and yanked him close. Harry had just enough time for a slight yelp and to bring his hand up to push away when the world imploded. It felt like he were being stretched and squished and squeezed through a straw.

The feel of normalcy was sudden and completely disconcerting. Harry tumbled backwards into the grass as Snape let go of his arm. He curled up into a ball, taking a few moments to allow his stomach to settle. Only then did he open his eyes.

"What the bloody Hell…"

Harry's heart stopped at the voice of his uncle. He scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly as his head got used to not being straw-shaped. "Uncle Vernon," he greeted softly.

The man was standing in his bathrobe, a half-open newspaper in his hand. He was rapidly turning a shade of purple that Harry didn't think could be healthy.

"The Headmaster has been corresponding with you," Snape said coldly. "He told you we would be delivering the boy this morning."

Uncle Vernon started to sputter. Harry shrank backwards slightly.

"Vernon? Who is it?" The sharp face of Harry's aunt pushed over Vernon's shoulder. Her lips pursed at the sight. "What are you doing here?"

Snape's eyebrow twitched. "I see where Potter gets his excellent methods of deduction," he said darkly. "The boy is your responsibility until September 1st. At which time, we expect his return."

Vernon seemed to gain his tongue, although real sentences were beyond him. "You- I- See here- I will not- Your lot-"

"Deduction and English skills," Snape corrected. "Good day." His dark eyes found Harry's and there was a beat as he stared into Harry's eyes. Then there was a startlingly loud pop as the man vanished.

"I- He- You-" Vernon was still struggling to form a sentence. "_Boy!"_

Harry winced. "Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

"Inside. Now!"

Harry nodded and scurried inside, ripping the wizard-style cloak from his shoulders before anyone else could. He bundled it in his hands and raced up the stairs, throwing himself into Dudley's second bedroom and getting the door closed behind him. It was going to be a long month.

"A summer's worth of chores in one month," came Aunt Petunia's voice, obviously trying to calm her husband down. "We won't even see him."

Harry dropped onto the bed, wincing at the feel of the old springs digging into his back. "Yay," he whispered. The picture still in his pocket crinkled and Harry winced slightly. He'd forgotten to ask if he could keep it.

He wormed his hand into his pocket and pull out the photo of his mother on the swing. He pressed out the worst of the wrinkles that had developed and held the picture up towards the ceiling. "Welcome to the Dursleys," he informed the smiling face of his mother. Then he set the picture on the small bedside table, planning to find a better spot before his relatives spotted it and destroyed it.

He dug into his pocket again and pulled out the matchbox sized trunk, wondering how he was going to get it to the right size again. All of his clothes were trapped inside. The matter solved itself when Harry dropped the pint-sized trunk on the ground, having decided to deal with it later. Light flashed and the trunk started to grow. Harry tipped his head back and watched it grow upside-down.

He rolled over onto his stomach when the trunk was back to normal size, only to find there was something in his way. Stopping, Harry grabbed a small package off the bed and sat up, holding the box in his hands. "Where'd this come from?" he whispered. He picked at the bit of parchment stuck to the top.

_Do not leave your things in my_ _apartment, _it said in neat, spidery handwriting. It wasn't signed.

With a small grin, Harry untied the bit of cord holding the box closed and pulled open the lid. Inside was a book with a little dark magic curled on top. Harry picked it up with a snort and a shake of his head. An Introduction on Darke Creatures: book one was warm in his fingers as he flipped it over, then set it on the bed beside him.

Harry dug out the other book sitting below it. A Further Introduction on Darke Creatures: book two. Harry couldn't help the soft laugh as he flipped carefully through the book. Dark magic snapped at his fingers.

Setting the book down, Harry had a brief moment to wonder if Dudley could read well enough to be trapped by a compulsion charm. Then he reached into the box and gently pulled out the third object that lay inside. It was a camera.

Harry slowly turned the camera around in his hands, running his fingers over the large lens. The camera was dusty and dinged. Chips were gone from places and the strap for placing around his neck was worn and frayed. It was an old, used camera that had clearly seen better days.

Then he very slowly traced his finger over two letters that had been crudely carved into the side.

_L. E._

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**The End.**


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